


A Crown of Crows

by SunBadger



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Character Deaths, Dragons, Ethics, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, First Meetings, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Reveal, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Reincarnation, Self-Discovery, Self-Hatred, Slow Burn, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Songfic, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:29:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 42
Words: 136,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23701591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunBadger/pseuds/SunBadger
Summary: There's something about Jaskier that Geralt can't quite place. It isn't his boldness in waltzing right up to him, how he seems strangely unswayed by the witcher's cold front, or even the way he glues himself to Geralt's side.The bard makes his medallion sing and tug at its chain any time they touch.Perhaps that plowing lute of his is enchanted. But Geralt has a funny feeling the poet is hiding something behind that warmhearted smile he finds himself so spellbound by.aka fae Jaskier shenanigans.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 163
Kudos: 524
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	1. PART 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, all! Thank you for taking the time to check out this story.  
>   
> This is a songfic (sorrynotsorry). I take no credit for any songs or lyrics featured here.  
> Links to songs/artist's official content in the notes at the top (stuff at the bottom is either something that helped inspire that part of the story or is just fitting for what's currently happening--I like sharing good music.)
> 
> I tried my best to pace the writing in a way that you can listen along while you read. But the choice is up to you!  
>   
> Also worth noting is that this story goes waaaay off the canon rails and it also gets more OC-heavy as it goes on.

Jaskier cradles a drink while hiding behind one of the tavern’s thick wooden support beams, silently forming a plan of attack as he eyes the traveler sitting alone at one of the far tables. The traveler is wearing a full set of studded leather armor, cracked and dull with years of wear. He strokes a jaw several weeks past shaven. Tired eyes stare contemplatively into the foam of his drink.

Earlier, from the little window of his room at the tavern’s inn, Jaskier had spotted a leshen skull dangling from a rope off the side of a dark bay mare. If that hadn’t instantly given the traveler’s identity away, then his shoulder-length hair, white as the wolves that roamed the Skellige isles, coupled with those cat eyes, twin blades and gleaming medallion, certainly had.

Jaskier smiles, scarcely believing his luck. There are so few witchers around these days—and this isn’t just any old witcher. This is Geralt of Rivia: The famous White Wolf. The Butcher of Blaviken. _This_ is a man who has stories to tell. The evidence covers his body; scars from countless nail-biting adventures, worthy of a thousand songs.

The bard shivers at the breadth of possibilities. If he gains Geralt’s trust, he’d be set with material for _life_. 

People _love_ a good monster-hunting tale. Jaskier knows, in this world torn by war, with no one knowing if their side would end up the "right" one for the history books, the simplicity of killing monsters is as inviting a concept as a warm stew on a cold night. It's simple, clear-cut, good versus evil. _Delicious._

Jaskier sets down his ale and approaches, decidedly already plenty drunk off the afterglow of his musical performance ten minutes prior. 

“ _Hello_ there," he drawls. "Mind if I sit?”

He doesn’t wait. In a single, flowing move, he whisks into the chair across from the witcher. Geralt doesn’t move except to glance upwards. Jaskier finds himself momentarily fixated on the man’s— _monster's,_ some would say—golden eyes, having heard only tales of the strange mutation.

“What do you want, bard?”

Jaskier blinks and returns his attention to the rest of the witcher's face. Geralt's brow is now furrowed, and his teeth are peeking out from between chapped lips. Jaskier approximates Geralt's voice to that of a growling dog—vaguely threatening, sure, but perhaps it's a normal _witchery_ thing to have? He shouldn't judge.

Jaskier straightens and presses a hand to the fine sky-blue satins that cover his chest. “Julian Alfred Pankratz. Although, you probably already knew that from my singing. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He offers a hand and smiles expectantly.

Geralt’s eyes narrow perceptively, but not in the way Jaskier anticipates. It isn’t a star-struck look. It isn’t even one of recognition.

The bard’s smile drops a bit. So does his hand. “Erm…Jaskier the poet? Surely you’ve at least _heard_ of me?"

Nothing. Not even a twitch of the mouth.

"Wh—? Truly?" Jaskier says. "Especially _here_ , in the great town of Oxenfurt, a place so dear to my heart, where I teach—eh, _taught_ —one would think it impossible not to have caught word of _the best_ minstrel in all of the northern kingdoms returning to perform.”

He waits, nimble fingers fiddling with a knot they found in the wood of the table as he watches the witcher take a long swig of beer. Geralt takes his sweet time wiping the foam from his whiskers, mulls a little over a hairline crack in the lip of his mug, yawns widely— _oh, he's got sharp incisors_ —and then, finally, says, “Do I look like a patron of the arts?”

Jaskier sputters out a nervous little laugh. “W-Well, you’re here, aren’t you? I noticed you attended the tail end of my performance—not that I was _watching you_ or anything. You stick out like a fox in a goose hutch among these village folk— _Oh,_ I mean no offense by that. S’just an observation! I’m _quite_ observant, you know. You have to be, if your writing’s gonna be any good...” —A sinking feeling settles in the bard’s stomach as his mouth continues to move seemingly of its own accord. _Oh my gods, please stop talking—_ “Uh, but those last couple of songs? They were slow and, well, kind of sad. Perhaps you’d prefer to hear something more cheery? If you’d like, I can play another.” 

“No _._ I came here for _a drink_ , not for…” Geralt waves dismissively towards the clearing in the center of the room where a small troupe continued to play, “…whatever that was.”

 _Oh. Oh, you’re_ really _fucking this up._ The bard licks his lips and rubs his temple, knowing he needs to think quick, to find some sort of connection before he lost the brute altogether. He recalls the notice board by the entryway and sits straight. “Say, did you happen to glance at the contracts on your way in? Griffin’s been terrorizing the farms outside the city.”

“That’s why I’m in town,” says the witcher. His voice continues to reject any inflections that would clue to bard into what he was feeling. “Just waiting for sunset.”

“Right…have you spoken with the person who posted the bounty?”

“Yes.”

Something about the way the word is shaped makes Jaskier’s hair stand on end. He takes a moment to swallow his fear, determined to start _some_ sort of professional relationship, even if it cost him a bruise for daring to be a flea on the wolf’s side. This mutant is a gods-damned gold mine of song material.

“Sir Witcher, you may not know who I am, but I know who you are,” he says carefully. Geralt’s eyes narrow. “That’s right. I’ve always got my ears perked for gossip. I’ve heard _all_ the murderous stories about you—and about your kind. They say you’re unholy aberrations. That you’re bred to kill, thoughtlessly and mechanically. That your emotions have been mutated entirely out of you, striping you of your humanity. Monsters killing other monsters for coin, is that it?”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier struggles to interpret the noise. He leans towards the witcher and says, as if it were a secret, “I have this _funny_ feeling that much of what they say isn’t entirely true. After all, why would you be turning to alcohol if you had no feelings to soothe?”

Although the reaction is barely perceptible, this seems to catch Geralt’s attention. _Ooooh_ —yes, he's onto something—Jaskier’s chest swells with gusto and his words become more passionate. “Must not be fun to be heckled at wherever you roam.”

“I’m used to it.” The witcher suddenly seems quite interested in the last drops of drink swirling around in the bottom of his stein.

“Sure, but it doesn’t _have_ to be this way. I could help clear your name, you know. Music is a powerful thing. It can reach deep into people’s hearts and change their view of things.” Geralt doesn’t respond. His brow is furrowed down at his beer, and he looks deep in thought. Jaskier braces himself for his next words. _Here’s your chance—_ “Would you, perhaps, allow me to accompany you on your griffin hunt, if I promise to write you a heroic ballad?”

Geralt looks up. His nose wrinkles. “Absolutely not.”

Jaskier wilts. “I’ll not get in your way—”

“ _No._ ” Geralt tightens his grip on the handle of the mug.

 _A pox on it!_ Jaskier huffs and stands, knowing his time is up. “Alright,” he drawls, tilting to the side rather dramatically. “ _Well,_ it was a pleasure conversing with you, Geralt of Rivia. I know when I'm not wanted. I’ll leave you and your _terrible reputation_ to brood.”

Jaskier trudges towards the woodline on the edge of the fields outside of Oxenfurt, a sack filled to the brim with lamb meat weighing against his chest. It has to be as much; Big monsters have big appetites.

While he certainly isn’t one for hard labor, he’s determined to see his plan through. In fact, he only started whispering complaints to himself _after_ the meat drippings seeped through the burlap and onto his expensive clothing. It’ll take a specialist to get those stains out, which is a shame, seeing how getting hold of an entire butchered lamb cost him every crown he had on him.

Sometimes, the poet thinks about how he would’ve made a steady, decent wage had he remained a tutor at the academy; thinks about how it would have saved him a lifetime of financial insecurity and frankly, troublemaking, and how he wouldn’t currently be putting his life at risk chasing after the emotional high of a good story.

_This’ll all be worth it._

He’s going to watch the witcher fight the ugly bird, whether he wanted him there or not. If Geralt isn’t going to let him follow, then Jaskier is going to bring the monster to him. The plan is flawless, much like the jewels on his rings. He looks forward to the ballad he’ll birth out of this experience. 

The woodline looms above him. He eyes it suspiciously, rejecting the way it seems to beckon him, like it always does, ever since he was young. And, like he always did, he ignores it. Instead, he settles himself where he is, allowing the sack to drop heavily to the ground. He digs the contract out of his pocket and reads it for the seventh time.

“…The beast frequents the field of the Welkfur family farm, emerging from the woods at dusk to prey on sheep.” Jaskier looks around and nods. This has to be the place. He takes the sack back into his hands and dumps the slick contents onto the plowed dirt on the corner of the field.

Then, he sits and waits. And then waits some more, until the sun caresses the mountaintops and his offering is covered in flies.

 _What’s taking so long?_

It dawns on him that birds are not known to have a strong sense of smell. They hunt primarily by sight, and it’s becoming apparent his bait isn’t visible enough. Luckily Jaskier, practiced lark that he is, knows one other thing about birds: They have sharp hearing. How else could they find each other in this vast world, if not by their songs?

The bard swings his old lute from his back, strums a few chords and adjusts the pegs to his liking. Then, he belts out a jovial song about a farmer whose livelihood is all but lost to a particularly clever pack of wolves; the inappropriateness of which he doesn’t realize until several verses in. Just as he's finishing the last, long note, he hears noise from the forest and leaps to his feet.

From the shadows emerges the witcher. Jaskier stiffens and waves, plastering a grin to his face and praying he isn’t about to eat a calloused fist.

At first, Geralt's eyes go wide at the sight of him. Then, they narrow in an unmistakable look of detest. “The fuck are _you_ doing way out here?”

“Observing.”

“Go home before you get yourself maimed.”

“Seeing how I'm a wandering minstrel and have no home, I cannot accommodate that request.”

The witcher rolls his eyes, takes a knee and unsheathes his silver sword. Jaskier watches with interest as Geralt applies some sort of oil to the blade. The witcher gruffs, “I won’t take responsibility for your death. If you're as famous as you claim to be, people will be after my head should anything happen to you. I deal with enough unsolicited disdain as it is.”

Jaskier crosses his arms and shifts his weight to the other hip. “I’m a grown man. I’m fully capable of making life or death decisions, and in this moment I happen to choose death!— _Oh_ —no, wait, that didn’t come out quite the way—”

Geralt cuts him off with a shushing sound.

When Jaskier opens his mouth to protest, the witcher grabs him by the hem of his shirt and drags him down to his level. Jaskier flails unhappily. “Ugh— _Geralt!_ You’re going to _rip_ my satins! My…dirty, likely permanently blood-stained satins, if I’m being fully honest. You know what, never mind.”

“Would you shut the hell up?”

“What? Do you hear something? I don’t hear anything.”

“That’s—!" Geralt starts, but then lowers his voice, "That's because you’re not a mutant. Shh!”

“Ah, interesting...so when they say you have heightened—”

Geralt grabs Jaskier’s collar and gives it a sharp tug, pulling their faces within inches of one another. “Stop _chattering_ , you drunk fucking crow.”

“ _Crow?”_ Jaskier pulls away. “Never in my life has anyone had _the audacity_ to compare my voice—" This time, the bard trails off on his own, when a sharp cry, accompanied by strong wind, rushes over them. He goes white when he sees it. “Oh, bloody hell.” 

The griffin is twice the size of a horse and three times as ugly. Its head is like an owl’s. White and black feathers blanket its chest and shoulders; but they end abruptly, erupting into the arse-end of a snow leopard. It circles above them, crying menacingly, before landing many yards away, kicking up a cloud of dust with its wings as it drops. It lowers its head and paces back and forth, eyeing the witcher’s sword and the lamb behind him, it’s tail lashing like a pissed-off cat.

Geralt positions himself between Jaskier and the monster. “Must’ve heard your crooning and mistook it for a dying animal."

“ _Rude!_ ”

“Take cover in the woods. Go!”

Not about to argue, Jaskier scrambles into the bushes. He peers through the branches, positioning himself so he has a clear view of the action.

Something warm presses against his back and he startles, swiftly turning and coming face-to-face with the peach-fuzz snout of Geralt’s mare. Her nostrils flare in a soft whinny and he gets a face full of horse breath. Jaskier coughs and winces, and then turns back towards the action.

He can feel the mare begin to nibble on his clothing. He bats her away without looking back. “This is a serious situation, Geralt’s horse. Will you—agh— _stop_ that!”

Despite the commotion behind him, Geralt's eyes never leave the griffin. “Come get your meal, you sack of filth!” he shouts, brandishing the sword.

The griffin extends its wings and screeches long and loud, and it sounds unnervingly like a screaming woman. A shiver runs up Jaskier’s spine, but the witcher appears undeterred.

 _You’re strange, for a human_ , Jaskier can hear the horse’s voice echo inside his head. He rolls his eyes. She playfully tugs on his sleeve and he shoves her snout away, too enraptured with the fight to pay her any mind.

After a standoff that feels, to the bard, like a bloody eternity, Geralt calmly removes a crossbow from his back. He stands on the stirrup, draws back the string with some effort, and then loads a nasty-looking bolt.

He aims and fires expertly, sending an arrow straight into the griffin’s side. The beast shrieks, takes to the air and dives straight for Geralt, who has since set down the bow and taken his sword back in his hand. He tries to side-step the attack at the last second, but mistimes it and is hooked by the bony wrist of its outstretched wing.

The two of them land clumsily; the witcher onto his back and the griffin beak-first into the ground. His face full of feathers, Geralt blindly stabs at the monster, piercing it twice in its muscular chest. It reels back, giving the witcher enough time to struggle back to a stand.

He’s barely able to regain a balance before the beast takes a swipe at him. Claws like meathooks catch Geralt on the thigh. Gritting his teeth, he stumbles backwards. His knuckles go white around his sword.

Witcher and monster circle one another, both of them bleeding, and the poet holds his breath.

 _Don’t ignore me._ The mare's playful nibbles turn into a bite.

Jaskier empties his lungs in a loud, “Ow!” He jumps up and away, but trips on a fallen branch and stumbles backwards out of the brush, running straight into Geralt's back with enough force that the witcher staggers forward.

“ _Damn_ _it_ , Jaskier!” he barks, sending him a quick, poisonous glare. Jaskier doesn’t have time to apologize. In that brief moment, the griffin lunges at the weaker-looking of the two.

The bard curses and blocks his face with an arm, paralyzed with fear. Geralt throws himself in the way. He shoves the bard down and gets another claw to the side. Jaskier falls onto his arse and Geralt pivots for a strike. He roars and swings his blade with mantis-like precision, slashing clean through the griffin’s bicep, destroying the rigging and causing the beast’s arm to go limp.

The monster lets out an enraged scream. Jaskier plugs his ears. Geralt bends over with his palm over one ear, and the grip of his sword desperately pressed against the other.

The griffin takes to the sky in an attempt to flee, kicking up another cloud of dust. Jaskier coughs and squints, looking up at the witcher's backside mere feet away from himself. Geralt is standing crookedly, holding a hand against his side, watching as the griffin falters from bloodloss and lands roughly in the middle of the field. It lies there, chest heaving, tail twitching and crying out weakly.

Geralt calmly closes the distance between himself and it. He positions himself over its back, centers the blade over the base of the skull, wedges it deep into the flesh and pulls the blade violently to the side. The head dislocates. Blood fountains from an artery, coating the witcher’s chest. Geralt seems utterly unfazed.

Jaskier winces and brings himself to a shaky stand. He remains in place, needing to take a moment to swallow down the wave of nausea that comes over him. Geralt sits heavily beside the body, leaning back on his hands, breathless and glistening with sweat. It's a long, silent few moments before the bard finally works up the courage to speak.

“Geralt, are you alright? I’m...I'm sorry.”

Geralt bares his teeth. “Are you? What the hell were you doing back there?”

“Your horse _bit_ me _out of nowhere_ and—”

“Please. That doesn’t sound like Roach at all.” The witcher stands slowly, achingly, and whistles. The mare trots out of the woods to stand obediently at his side. He takes something from her mouth—a strip of blue satin—and looks back at the bard, appearing somewhat perplexed.

Geralt doesn't say anything more, only turns away to gather wing feathers—some longer than his legs—presumably to sell. Jaskier sees him walking a little funny, obviously injured, but has difficulty telling where the griffin's blood ends and the witcher’s begins.

He makes his way over, timidly. “So, um, her name is Roach? Like the fish?”

Geralt secures the feathers within his bedroll, tightening the belts around it. “Like the fish,” he gruffs. Jaskier watches him make his way back over to the monster, messily cut off its head—a trophy didn't have to be pretty, he supposes—and tie the dripping thing to Roach’s side. The mare’s ears flip back to listen. She shifts her stance against the added weight, but seems otherwise disinterested. Finally, Geralt digs an old rag out of a saddlebag and wipes his blade clean. When he stretches high to re-sheathe it onto his back, that’s when Jaskier sees it: a sizable rip in his shirt and an angry-looking wound. He immediately looks away, hiking his shoulders up and crossing his arms, bracing himself against a sudden wave of lightheadedness.

“That griffin got you _bad,_ ” he says. His hand glides upwards to run through his hair. He keeps his eyes set on the weeds by his boots as he fights down a wave of nausea. Guilt begins to settle heavily in his stomach.

When he hears Geralt grunt, he looks and finds him hefting himself into the saddle, his face contorted in a pained grimace.

"Hey, take it easy!" Jaskier blurts.

Geralt settles himself and takes up the reins. “I’ve had worse."

“Had _worse_? I'm pretty sure you’ve lost more blood in the past five minutes than I’ve lost in _a lifetime!_ ”

“Witchers heal quickly." The answer isn’t good enough for Jaskier, who stands staring at him in disbelief. He must have looked quite pathetic, because Geralt rolls his eyes and says, “Why do you care so much?”

“You wouldn’t have been hurt so badly if it weren’t for me. Plus, there are all sorts of creepy crawlies that can get up in a wound like that and turn it _green_. It needs to be tended to.”

Geralt shrugs and looks ahead. “I’ll find a creek to wash in. I can bandage myself. It'll be fine.”

“ _Creek?_ ” the poet cries. “Surely you realize all the creeks for miles are filled with runoff from animal dung.” Geralt doesn’t respond. He clicks his tongue at Roach, who begins walking towards the hut of the farmer that posted the contract. Jaskier follows close behind. “Let me make it up to you."

"Unnecessary."

 _"Please._ I hate feeling like I'm in debt. Come back to the inn with me and stay the night. We’ll get you cleaned up and draw you a warm bath.” The witcher, swaying lazily along with his horse’s hips, looks back at him skeptically. Jaskier sighs and throws out his arms—he can’t believe the amount of work he has to put into this conversation—“For _free_ , Geralt. _Obviously._ ”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song:  
> [Níl Sé'n Lá](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t1sPTvkkBX4) by [Celtic Woman](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCay9vtYnfg1CEX96rXWG5Qg)

“It’s tragic, but true," the bard sighs. "I don’t have any crowns on me—but I’ll sing tonight, at no cost, so long as you let the witcher stay the night.”

“I don’t have any open rooms,” says the innkeeper. He stares over at Geralt, who sits slouched at a nearby table, ignoring the guests who are eyeing him nervously. “Plus, _his kind_ are—”

“Ah-ah!” the bard cuts him off, wagging a finger. “He can stay in my room, and I’ll make sure we stay out of trouble.”

“You? Staying out of trouble?” the innkeeper snorts. “Listen here, Jaskier. If I find blood stains or griffin guts on my bed sheets tomorrow morning—”

Jaskier removes a golden ring from his finger and holds it out to the man. “Collateral,” he says. The innkeeper inspects the ring, humming in thought. Then, he yanks it from the bard's hand and walks away.

“You should be kinder towards the witcher,” Jaskier calls after him. “After all, he risked his life taking care of your monster problem!”

“It was the farmer’s problem, and it wasn’t without payment. Be downstairs with your lute by 8pm sharp, or I’ll kick you and that mutant mongrel onto the streets.”

Jaskier quietly mocks the innkeeper’s words as he helps Geralt up two flights of stairs. Geralt, although still pretending he’s fine, still has trouble walking all the way upright. Jaskier's room is at the very end of the hallway, and by the time they reach the door, the bard’s muscles are screaming hot from bearing what he had to admit was barely half of the witcher’s weight. He sets Geralt down in the chair by the desk where he spends his nights jotting down lyrics and poetry.

“Try not to drip on the parchment," the poet says. Geralt only grunts, eyes scanning the lavish room and narrowing in displeasure. Jaskier twists his lips as he watches, then mutters, “I’ve never met someone so senselessly opposed to comfort.”

“You would _hate_ Kaer Morhen.”

“Can I ask you something?” Jaskier says, dumping a bucket of warm water over the witcher’s head. “ _Why_ do you hate my voice?”

Geralt wipes the sopping curtain of ashen hair from his face and sends Jaskier a glare. “Warn me before you do that.”

“Sing?”

The witcher glares poisonously up at him. Jaskier lifts his hands innocently, adding, "Bucket. Right. Sorry."

Silence. Jaskier attentively hands Geralt a bar of soap. “I have a hunch,” he goes on, “That my music makes you _feel things_ , and that you don’t like that.”

Jaskier settles himself on a nearby stool and watches the witcher scrub his arms and torso, working tenderly around his wounds. Dried blood dissolves into the water, leaving it a murky reddish-brown. The poet’s eyes glide over the peaks and valleys of Geralt's muscles in silent admiration. When he realizes what he’s doing, he clears his throat and looks at the floor.

“Seems every time something moves you, you cast it off like a starving leech,” he says quietly, and hears a soft splash as Geralt changes positions in the tub. “Why is that?” Jaskier glances back up. Geralt is cleaning the wound on his thigh.

“ _Feelings_ lead to attachments," the witcher says. His low burr of a voice is something Jaskier is beginning to find quite soothing, much like the purr of a cat. "Attachments that usually aren’t worth risking your life over. Why accumulate such glaring weaknesses? Besides, when it comes to _you_...There’s something about you I can’t put my finger on.” He briefly pauses his washing to finger his medallion. The wet metal glistens in the candlelight.

Jaskier snorts. “What, are my devilishly-handsome looks and siren-like voice too much for you to process?” He shows his teeth in a crooked grin. Geralt returns his look with a slight, but nasty smile.

“If you’re ever unfortunate enough to come face-to-face with a real siren, you won’t be so quick to compare yourself to one.”

Jaskier scrunches his nose. “If you say so...But, back to my point. Allowing your feelings to flow freely is _important._ They add flavor to the soup of life. You have _bland soup_ , Geralt—And frankly, I don't think it has anything to do with you being a Witcher." Geralt furrows his brow up at him. The bard shrugs and places a hand against his own inflated chest. "I, for one, can’t _imagine_ a life severed from my feelings. I try to always live in the moment, guided by what my heart tells me. That's the artist way, and it's turned out great for me. Just look at what I’m doing now.”

“Sitting in the washroom of a mediocre inn, irritating a witcher.”

“ _Traveling the world as a lauded musician_.”

Geralt hums, and the bard struggles to interpret it. Jaskier watches him wash his back and subsequently struggle to reach every spot. Despite all he heard about Geralt's kind and their superhuman abilities, the awkward display is very human of him.

Geralt eventually gives up, sighing and setting the soap on the edge of the tub. He says, “Getting carried away by emotions is dangerous in my line of work. We’re two very different people, Jaskier.”

“That may be so." The bard plucks the soap from the wood and circles the tub. “But you could stand to be a bit more discerning. Allowing some good music to reach your soul every once in a while isn’t likely to spell your doom. There’s a time and a place, even for someone like you.”

Geralt eyes Jaskier suspiciously as the bard kneels behind him to finish the job. Jaskier can feel him stiffen when he gently presses the soap between his shoulder blades. The witcher doesn't otherwise protest.

The innkeeper waits at the bottom of the stairs with his arms crossed over his barrel chest. He taps his foot rather dramatically. “What did I say? 8pm _sharp_ , minstrel.”

“It’s 8:03, you old boar.” Jaskier brushes past him and looks around, trying to get a feel for his audience. The tavern, although stuffed to the gills, is quieter than usual. People drink, but there's no loud laughter. No boasting or fist fights or ill-fated bets. Instead, there's soft conversation broken by sighs. Jaskier leans towards the innkeeper. “Um...did somebody die?”

“Oh, sure. _Lots_ of people. Word got round about how Nilfgaard plans to cross the Yaruga. The Black Ones are expected to swallow up the rest of the north. People are afraid the same fate'll befall Redania as did Cintra.” The innkeeper shakes his head sadly at the crowd. “This town is full of writers, philosophers and artists. They have no fight in ‘em. It's no wonder they're so anxious. What are they gonna do against a bunch of trained soldiers? Flick paint at 'em? Bore 'em to death reading aloud tome excerpts? Hah. We're doomed, if you ask me.”

Jaskier startles when the innkeeper gives him a rough pat on the back, pushing him towards the tables and saying, “Think you can lighten the mood?”

“That’s what I do,” the poet says grimly.“I’ll make them forget their troubles, for a while.”

Jaskier is trying to forget, too. Forget about the witcher, up in his room, who he invited to attend the show after their talk, and who he finds he strangely can’t stop thinking about. Geralt curtly refused his offer. Jaskier expected as much, but it still _hurts_. He'd fortified himself against rejections and critiques long ago and the witcher's logically wouldn’t be any different. And yet.

Jaskier finds he cares a _disproportionate_ amount about what Geralt thinks.

He turns towards the tables, breathes deeply, rolls his shoulders and takes a confident step forward. But he stops short when he hears his name. Turning, Jaskier spots the innkeeper holding out a fist and looking a little uncomfortable. The poet warily extends his hand, and into it falls his ring.

“Don’t give me that face. Listen, if that Witcher shows tonight, I’ll give him a beer on-the-house,” says the innkeeper. “Mutant or not, I’m beginning to realize we need more folks like him around here. Real, honest warriors. Defenders of the defenseless.”

Jaskier smiles warmly, sliding his jewelry back into place. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate that.”

He glances up the stairs one more time—just to check—and makes his way to the center of the tavern where there's a large, open area for dancing. He begins to pick at the strings of his lute, clever fingers gliding across the instrument in an intricate dance.

The notes start off gentle. He eases the guests into his presence, earning him naught but a few glances. He starts softly lilting along, loosening his tongue, “ _Dah dah d’yat’n dee’da, dah yat’n de dah, de dah de dum_ —”

His strumming picks up and he launches into an upbeat song—an old elven tune—that he knows is a guaranteed spirit-lifter.

He gives the inn’s troupe a meaningful nod, and they back him up with their instruments. The music swells. Jaskier feels like a sailor with the wind at his back. He lets the sound carry him, strutting across the room like a peacock as he sings:

_I came by a house last night,_

_And told the woman I am staying,_

_I said to her ‘The moon is bright,_

_and my lute is tuned for playing.’_

He looks over the crowd. Ah, the smiles. _There_ they are...

A woman begins to clap along. She’s quickly joined by others, and Jaskier's chest fills with warmth. He twirls on his heels, offering his spritely energy to the crowd.

_Tell me that the night is long,_

_Tell me that the moon is glowing,_

_Fill my glass, I'll sing a song,_

_And we’ll start the music flowing..._

Something catches the minstrel's eye and he turns to look. What he sees fills his stomach with butterflies. _Geralt;_ halfway down the staircase and leaning heavily on the railing.

Jaskier keeps performing, turning this way and that, pretending not to notice. Although he can’t hide his grin, he expertly plays it off as part of the act.

Geralt takes a seat near the back. The innkeeper, having had plenty of time to notice the witcher’s slow descent, is instantly at his side with a drink. Geralt nods in silent thanks and then looks directly at the bard.

Jaskier stiffens and swivels in the other direction, afraid he might scare him away if their eyes met too soon. He jumps onto an empty chair, and then on top of the nearest table, ignoring the glare he knew the innkeeper must be sending him.

The crowd hoots in excitement, clapping and waving for more alcohol. Jaskier lets the energy fill him to the brim and he gains more and more confidence until his ego is positively swollen.

_...Fill the glasses one more time,_

_And never heed the empty bottle!_

_Turn the water into wine,_

_And turn the party up to double!_

He beams, stomping along to the beats of the bridge, sending silverware clattering and working up the crowd even more. He strums his old lute gleefully, leaping from one table to the next, dancing around plates with unexpected grace, and slowly making his way towards the witcher. Jaskier finds the courage to catch Geralt’s gaze, and finds he is unable to look away. 

The witcher is leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed, sending him a knowing look that says, ‘Don’t you _dare._ ’

Jaskier closes in, intent, lost in those hypnotizing golden eyes; Eyes which are beginning to soften.

_Don’t go out into the cold,_

_where the wind and rain are blowing,_

_For the fire’s flaming gold,_

_and in here the music’s flowing..._

Ignoring his better judgement, Jaskier leaps to the floor and glides into the empty seat beside Geralt. Jaskier leans playfully against his shoulder, dramatically strumming away, determined to _infect_ him with his aggressive sunshine.

Jaskier throws his head back and smiles sweetly around his lyrics. As soon as he's sure he's got Geralt hanging onto his every word, Jaskier stands and practically falls into the laps of two swooning ladies at the next table. They croon and lay their hands on him while he continues to sing without missing a beat.

He sends Geralt a very obvious wink and the witcher rolls his eyes and shakes his head, smirking— _He’s smirking!_

The sight catches Jaskier so off-guard, he nearly trips over his tongue and loses his fingering.

 _Nobody_ is immune to the poet's charms.

Supremely satisfied with himself, Jaskier stands abruptly, leaving the ladies with a spirited bow and then twirling back towards the center of the room to finish the song.

_...It’s not day, not yet, my love,_

_It’s not day, won’t be ‘till morning,_

_It’s not day, not for a while,_

_And the silver moon is,_

_Silver moon is,_

_Silver moon is,_

_Silver moon is calling!_

Jaskier ends with a flourish, once again solidifying his rank as the finest minstrel in the northern kingdoms. The crowd erupts into applause, whistling and banging their fists on the tables. The innkeeper, drying a mug with a rag, nods approvingly at him from behind the counter. Even Geralt gives him a few heavy claps.

Jaskier lives for the feeling— _basks_ in it; That swarming vigor that fills the room, feels like static and ripples across his body. He wishes he could collect it in a bottle to unleash on command, for it would surely cure all ailments.

He takes a moment to catch his breath before leading into the next song, hungry for more.

* * *

  
Geralt sits on the edge of the bed, shirtless and yawning. He closes his eyes, taking in the blessed silence that fell over the building at last. That damn bard worked the crowd up so much and got them all so drunk, he was afraid they’d never leave.

Jaskier sits at the desk a few feet away, hunched over his papers by candlelight.

Geralt was surprised to find him there, scribbling away, rather than off somewhere—perhaps enjoying himself with the gaggle of women that had followed him around until the tavern closed and the innkeeper forced them all out.

Stranger, the witcher found it a _relief_. He's glad to have the poet to himself.

He’ll never admit it, but it’s nice—an honest _pleasure—_ to have some friendly company. If only for a night.

“Hmm...Geralt?” Jaskier doesn’t take his attention off his chickenscratch. “What rhymes with griffin?”

After a long silence, Geralt, reluctant to give away his delight, offers, “Kick in. As in, I’m going to kick in your teeth if you keep me up any longer.”

“Bollocks.” Jaskier sits up and looks at him with those mischievous blue eyes. Okay, he’s got to admit, the bard is charming as fuck. Geralt’s chest feels warm as Jaskier adds, “I might have to rework that line...S'a bit clunky.”

The bard brushes the tip of his quill under his nose, deep in thought. He taps his fingers on the desk, scribbles something else down excitedly, and then leans back to look at what he had so far. “Oh yes,” he chuckles to himself. “This will be _brilliant_.”

In that moment, the contents of the day seem to pour over the witcher all at once—not unlike the little avalanches of snow that would occasionally, and always unexpectedly, come spilling over his head from the branches of evergreen trees that grow around Kaer Morhen. Despite how amused he is by the minstrel, he’s unable to ignore the way his _entire body_ aches.

“It’s half-past midnight,” he groans, falling heavily back onto the sheets. “How do you still have so much energy?”

“Proper inspiration works wonders to stave off sleep,” Jaskier murmurs, hunched back over the parchment.

The witcher closes his eyes and drifts off to the soft scratching of the poet's quill. The sound is oddly soothing.

  
  
Geralt wakes at dawn with the birdsong, as he always does, and finds Jaskier asleep over the desk with his cheek laying against the parchment, both it and the paper smudged with ink. Sunlight pours in from the window and falls over the bard, making his satin gleam.

Geralt tries to remain quiet as he sits up, having no clue how long the bard had been out and not wanting to rouse him.

He starts to assess his wounds: only a little blood seeped through the bandages. Despite his refusal to accept the help, Jaskier insisted on helping anyway. He has to admit, Jaskier did an _excellent_ job of binding his chest after the bath—putting far more care into the job than Geralt would've given himself, had he been on his own. Not too loose, not too tight.

He slowly stands, still aching all over, and gathers his things. He adjusts his trousers, pulls on his shirt and boots, and reassembles his leather armor. His swords, which lean against the wall in their sheaths, are the last things he grabs. After strapping them onto his back and tightening the straps in a fluid, practiced movement, he heads for the door.

Then, he stops.

His eyes settle on Jaskier and soften. On a whim, he grabs the blanket off the bed and hangs it over the poet’s slender shoulders. As much as he hates to admit it, he knows he's going to miss the bard. Despite his carefully built walls, Jaskier had somehow managed to crack open Geralt's thorny exterior.

One single day; that was all it took.

It happened so fast that the witcher, even with all his sharpened senses and guardedness, didn’t realize it was happening before it was too late. Now, as he looks over Jaskier, he feels a sense of possessiveness.

 _Fuck._ The bard has him wrapped around his agile fingers. Time to go.

He hurries down the hall, as fast as his injuries would allow, but it's not fast enough. A voice stops him at the bottom of the stairs.

“Geralt?”

 _Damn it._ The witcher turns and sees Jaskier, all ruffled hair and rosy cheeks, holding apprehensively onto the wooden railing at the top of the stairs. The blanket is still draped over him. 

“Were you just going to _leave me_ here? Without so much as a goodbye?” says the bard.

Geralt isn’t sure what to say, because the only thing going through his mind is, _'You have some kind of a power over me, there's something strange about you, and it’s kind of terrifying and I need to run.'_

He settles with, “I didn’t want to wake you.”

Jaskier hums thoughtfully and begins to close the distance between them. “I did some thinking last night,” he says carefully, descending the steps. Geralt's chest fills with a mixture of dread and fondness. He fights with which one to give his attention to. “I’ve lingered in this town for far too long. I seek stories, you see, and _you_ , Geralt, are full of them. I don’t know where you’re headed, and frankly, I don’t much care...What would you say to traveling together—for a little while?”

Geralt’s sluggish, ambling heart begins to beat faster. _Get out of here. You can't afford to do this. He'll be the death of you, damn it!_

“I work alone. Don’t see any reason for that to change," the witcher says, and turns and heads for the door.

Jaskier follows close behind, leaving the blanket on the stairs. “Okay, alright, I hear you. But picture this. You continue doing what you’ve always done, and I stay out of your way, while recording your heroic deeds and immortalizing them.”

"Not necessary. I’m a monster-slayer, not a king.”

They reach his horse in the stables. Roach's ears prick up at the sight of the bard. She bobs her head and then pushes her snout against Jaskier’s chest. Jaskier gives a nervous little laugh and gently strokes the bridge of her nose. “Alright, I accept your apology,” he murmurs. “Although, it _is_ forward of you to ask for apples from someone right after nearly getting them killed. No, I know...”

Geralt watches in total confusion. He himself confided in his horse regularly. But Jaskier is talking to Roach as if it's a two-way conversation.

The bard's attention eventually returns to the witcher. He says, “Wouldn’t it be nice not to have people curse and spit on you wherever you go?” His voice is honey-sweet and seeps right into Geralt, reaching a place deeper than any griffin wound could. “It’s a damn _shame_ , the things they say about you.”

Geralt’s heart climbs into his throat. He swallows it down and moves to untie Roach’s lead. His hands tremble.

“I could change people’s minds,” the bard adds. “I _want_ to.”

The witcher quickly pulls his horse into the open. He climbs onto her back with some effort, doing his best to ignore the searing pain in his side.

“You don’t need me to do that,” he answers Jaskier softly, half-heartedly, as he takes up the reins.

Roach prances in place. A silence falls over them. Geralt, normally a fan of peace and quiet, finds he can't tolerate it. He turns the mare in the direction of the southwest bridge and encourages her to walk. He tells himself it's better this way. For both of them.

“Safe travels, Jaskier.”

“Wait, Geralt... _Please_.”

Geralt stops. More specifically, _Roach_ stops outside of his command. He frowns down at her mane—she never disobeys him—and then glances back at the bard, which is a mistake. Jaskier is looking at him as if he's watching his heart walk away. Geralt has the awful, gut-twisting feeling that it i _s—_ that he picked up something extra sometime between when he first arrived in Oxenfurt and now.

He braces himself, watching as the minstrel takes a deep breath, steps forward and says, “I’m tired of wandering alone.”

Roach snorts and tosses her head, as if chastising Geralt. Jaskier looks up at him expectantly, hanging desperately onto the ravine between their words. Aching waves roll across the witcher’s chest as his _own body_ rebels against his mind.

Outnumbered. Three to one.

He sighs. “Go get your things before I change my mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier's lilting right before his song is based on the beginning of this: [Téir Abhaile Riú](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1g7XO7gICAo)


	3. Chapter 3

Roach walks leisurely across the Temerian countryside, weaving in and out among orchard trees in full, glorious spring bloom. Geralt is in wandering mode, with nothing particularly pressing to harry him. This is well, as his side still pulses with pain, and Roach’s cantering would only aggravate it.

He takes in the views, relishing in the peace that settled over the farmland, thanks to the griffin's absence. The weather is ideal; Sunny, and not too hot or cold. A slight breeze tousles his hair.

Despite his lack of a horse, Jaskier keeps pace with Geralt without issue. At some point, the bard plucked a dandelion from the roadside and stuck it above his right ear. The flower suits him.

Jaskier keeps himself occupied by testing his newest ballad, plucking at his lute and singing softly to himself; stopping halfway through a verse and restarting it in a slightly different way. Geralt listens to the entire process, only _sort of_ wanting to strangle him.

* * *

The bard and the witcher never failed to catch the attention of the villagers they passed as they spent months meandering across Temeria, zig-zagging from Oxenfurt, to Vizima, down to Maribor and back up toward Gors Velen. They would be stopped on occasion by a curious child asking about why Geralt carried two swords, why he wore them on his back, or the reason for his cat eyes and unnaturally white hair. Geralt routinely tried to avoid the little snots. He never went out of his way to frighten them off, but offered only short, gruff answers until they got bored and left.

Far more often, it was Jaskier who would get accosted, often by name, to sing. The bard seemed unbothered, and children were routinely drawn to his kind face and his bright outfits. Geralt would be forced to wait while Jaskier played to a growing crowd. But he didn’t mind since they’d usually get tossed a few crowns for the trouble.

Still, Geralt found himself the subject of wary looks and easy insults. He quickly learned to distance himself during his companion’s spontaneous performances. He would leave Jaskier to do his thing while he checked the notice board or poked around at the local smithy, herbalist or tavern.

Most of the contracts dealt with ridding an area of drowners, wargs or ghouls. A few months in, Geralt found himself battling a horde of echinops; porcupine-like creatures that are able to shoot their spines at threats, and which had made their burrows in a grain field near Carreas. Jaskier kept his word about not getting in the way during the calamity, but spent the subsequent hours helping Geralt painstakingly remove bits of spine from his armor—and from his back and thighs. The poor bard nearly passed out from the sight more than once, but insisted on continuing to help, combing over Geralt's body to make sure they got everything out.

At some point, the witcher and the bard began to share a bed any time they were fortunate enough to have an inn nearby. It was to save on coin, of course.

* * *

“Are we headed into the forest?”

“Yes?” Geralt turns his head and finds Jaskier stopped behind him. He's staring nervously at the looming woodline.

“Can’t we go around?”

Geralt tugs Roach to a standstill. “What? That will add two days to our trip.”

“I don’t want to go in there.”

The waiver in Jaskier's voice cuts into him. Geralt reins in Roach until she's level with the bard, and then puts a reassuring hand on top of his head. His medallion starts to hum, just like it did every time they touched. Jaskier blinks up at him expectantly.

“There’s no reason to worry," says Geralt. "I can handle a pack of wolves and I’m in good standing with the Scoia’tael."

Jaskier clings tightly to the lute strap across his chest, looking up at him with wide eyes. “S'not the _Squirrels_ , Geralt. It’s something else entirely. I’ve had bad feelings around the woods all my life. It’s like there are _shadows_ watching me. Calling me in. I venture to say something in there wants me _dead_ , though I haven’t the slightest idea why.”

Geralt wonders if the bard—or more likely one of his parents—managed to piss off a leshen or dryad. “It will be fine. After all, you’ve got me here.”

“But—”

“Jaskier." Geralt places a hand under the bard’s chin and gently tilts it upwards. The medallion vibrates again. He looks into those bright eyes and softens. “I will protect you.”

The bard doesn't answer right away. Eventually, he sets his jaw and gives Geralt a slight nod. Together, they enter the forest. Jaskier keeps one hand on the side of Roach’s neck, looking the trees up and down warily.

A few miles in and the woods give them nothing but dappled light, bird song, and the sporadic drumming of woodpeckers. Geralt can sense Jaskier slowly easing up. The poet walks beside the horse, keeping his hands to himself, as his fear of the towering trees gradually shifts into wonder. He stops to admire colorful mushrooms and wildflowers growing just off their narrow, meandering path.

“Why didn’t anybody tell me the woods were so…” Jaskier steps aside to inspect some lichens on a boulder.

“Beautiful?” Geralt finishes. Jaskier smiles up at him. The witcher can’t disagree. While it seems to surprise anyone who sticks around the old wolf long enough to discover, he, too, has a keen eye for beauty. It’s one of many facets about himself he dislikes, as this inclination distracts him, sometimes to devastating ends.

There were many beautiful things he’d been forced to destroy over his too-long life, because he was a Witcher, and nothing was ever simple.

Geralt briefly closes his eyes, silently admitting to himself that he wasn’t fully honest with Jaskier when they’d first met. He is indeed a patron of the arts. Just a reluctant one.

“I don’t know what I was so afraid of,” says the bard, chuckling as he walks ahead. “Sometimes my imagination outruns me.” 

“Don’t lose your head over some wildflowers.” Geralt eyes him with dragon-like possessiveness and tells himself he would not lose this beautiful thing.

Sometime past noon, they find a grove in which to rest and eat. Geralt uses Igni to start a fire. Over it, he hangs a rabbit he’d shot on the trail. He sits, making himself comfortable in the warm glow, and watching the flames lick the fur off the animal’s skin.

Jaskier, having been chatting away with Roach somewhere behind Geralt, suddenly goes silent. Then, he says, “I thought I felt something just now, too.”

Geralt frowns and sits up. _He_ was the one who should be sensing things well before Jaskier, or even his horse. He stills himself, focusing on his surroundings, but he doesn’t sense anything out of the ordinary. His medallion lies motionless against his chest.

_False alarm. The bard is anxious. He doesn't know what he's talking about._

Just as he allows himself to relax again, a flock of crows takes flight from nearby, cawing raucously. Jaskier yelps. The witcher glances back and sees the bard glaring at the canopy, in the direction the birds had come from.

“Crows. I hate crows,” the poet grumbles. “Bloody death-birds, the lot of them, with their mischief-making and their horrid voic—ahh hahhh...” his sentence falls apart into a nervous laugh and he ducks behind Roach's wall of a body. “Oh, something’s _definitely_ off about this place. We should leave, Geralt.”

Undeterred, the witcher beckons him over with a flip of his hand. Jaskier hurries to his side and sits close enough that their shoulders touch. Geralt puts his arm securely around him, pulling him in tightly. “You’re _fine_ ,” he says gently.

Jaskier eyes his trembling hands as if he suspects they've developed a mind of their own. “You’re probably right. Look at me, cowering like that rabbit had before you skewered it...”

“There’s nothing here. Even if there were, I would protect you." As he’d done before, he tips Jaskier’s chin up ever-so-gently, making him look him in the eyes, before he adds, “I promise.”

And again, the bard nods.

They sit in silence for a while. Jaskier continues to shiver against him, the warmth of the fire doing nothing to ease it. Geralt, feeling a sharp pang of sympathy, decides it would be best to distract him.

“I have to ask. Why do you address Roach like she’s speaking to you?”

“Because she is.” Jaskier locks eyes with him innocently. “She doesn’t like when you yank on the reins, by the way. The bit hurts the roof of her mouth.”

Geralt glances over at his horse and then back at the bard. “So, you’re some kind of horse-whisperer then?”

“Oh, not only horses.” Jaskier looks back down at his hands and absentmindedly laces and unlaces his fingers. “I’ve always been able to communicate with animals. When I was young, no one I told ever believed me. One day, my father pulled me aside and made me _promise_ to keep the talent to myself. Acted like it were a matter of life or death, but never explained why. . .I suppose now I’ll _never_ know.”

“What's stopping you from just asking him?”

The bard laughs softly. “I’d need a good shovel and a witch with a crooked moral compass to do so.”

“Sorry.”

“S’alright.” Jaskier lays his head against Geralt’s shoulder. The witcher’s heart skips. They watch the fire for a moment.

“What about your mother?”

“Never knew her.”

Geralt hums. “Well, that’s one thing we have in common.”

Jaskier doesn’t answer. Instead, he places his nimble fingers on Geralt’s thigh, tracing gently around the bandages of a wound from a forktail, seemingly lost in thought. All at once, the witcher is paralyzed, fixated on the strange mixture of pleasure and pain his touch brings.

He wants to say something. Wants to tell Jaskier about the feelings that have been slowly mounding over the last few months, which now threatened to spill over at any moment. He'd rather it be a moment he plans. Maybe he should just...

His mouth opens slightly, but he finds he can’t make his lips form the words.

 _Why?_ he wonders, gnawing on the inside of his lip. Is it because he's unable to bear shattering his carefully maintained reputation? What is he even trying to hide? The notion that he, in fact, has _feelings_ , just like anyone else? And why is that such a bad thing? 

_It's unprofessional, for a hired killer, to be easily swayed by emotion_ , Vesemir's voice echoes in the back of his mind. _It's a liability, plain and simple. Clients don’t want to catch you staring all dove-eyed at a lover. They want to know you’ll do the work they ask, without having to worry about the chance that your heart will be changed, or that you carry secret biases. If you want enough contracts to survive, you'll need to maintain a certain professional reputation.  
_

Geralt sighs. His logic tells him this is the point where he is supposed to start distancing himself from his silly crushes. But finds the idea hurts _far_ more than he thought it would.

This persistent, unexpressed ache is driving him _mad_. It sometimes keeps him up late into the night, as his eyes pour over the bard’s delicate form with the gentleness and steadiness of a slow-moving river; all in silent awe of this scrawny ball of musical enthusiasm who is so different from himself, yet complements his every aspect.

Jaskier, even without his lute or jeweled adornments, still _feels_ like magic. At first Geralt assumed it was a _thing_ on the poet that must be enchanted. But he now believes the magical aura emanates from the bard himself. He realized some weeks ago that his medallion _always_ vibrates when they touch, without exception. Even in the bath.

The witcher's analytic mind putters to life: Perhaps Jaskier is...a mage? But then, why wouldn’t he just _tell_ him? Why wouldn’t he flaunt it? Why not use magic to fix his mundane problems? Novigrad and other areas dominated by The Church of the Eternal Fire aside, Witches and Wizards tended to go out of their way to make sure everyone knew their powerful social status.

Geralt rules mage out as a possibility. 

_Then what? Vampire?_ That seems unlikely as well. Jaskier almost never leaves his side—never disappears without explanation, only to come back smelling like someone else’s blood. But higher vampires technically don’t _need_ blood to survive, so maybe Jaskier has more restraint than he assumed. _Maybe that’s why he tends to go so heavy on the wine..._ _Ah, plow it all. That can't be. He has a reflection, and he casts a shadow._

Not a vampire.

 _Jaskier said he can communicate with animals. That seems like it should be a big clue. Maybe—_ No. Geralt shakes his head free of the mental whirlpool. He isn’t doing this again. He isn’t going to twirl endlessly around the overflowing wellspring of monstrous options out there. He always got hung up on this or that and would never get anywhere. And besides, it always ended with him feeling negatively about himself, wondering why Jaskier hides his true form— _whatever_ that may be—from him in the first place. Geralt wanted to believe they’d forged great trust in one another. But, as much as he hates to consider it, perhaps he's wrong.

He sighs quietly as he looks down at the bard. Jaskier is nodding off, contradictorily giving every indication that he trusted Geralt with his life.

The bard’s magic, _whatever_ it’s origin, isn’t the same energy Yennefer radiated, that's for sure. Geralt would describe his old flame's aura like a crisp fall night—refreshing, but only to a point. The icy enchantress was best taken in small doses—in short-lived, but passionate, albeit tumultuous, flings. Because, despite all the times he’d tried with her, he always found himself wanting to step away from the intensity for a while.

The older Geralt grows, the less tolerant he becomes of the drama that followed the witch wherever she went.

Jaskier’s air is something entirely new to him. Like the sun in spring, his is a self-perpetuating, radiant warmth. It’s vibrant and colorful and _contagious_ to anyone who crosses his path.

More than once, Geralt witnessed Jaskier use his charms to sweet-talk merchants into giving them better prices, or to wheedle bakers into throwing in an extra pastry or two to their purchase—and all without a single iota of conflict.

It's something Geralt believes he’ll never get enough of; not because of the free stuff, or the sharp uptick in people who treated the witcher not-like-shit in the celebrity's presence—although those things were nice perks—rather, because it's so damn magnetic. Sure, Jaskier could be overbearing, annoying, and downright dramatic at times. But Geralt has yet to feel the need to say "I need a break."

 _Maybe he'll say something first...I_ know _he feels the same way about me. I can smell it on him, for gods' sakes._ _Maybe if it’s he who admits it, then this unspoken thing we have, despite what I am...maybe it would be—_

Roach’s piercing whinny startles him out of his mind. He and Jaskier jolt upright—the bard with a sharp curse—and both of their heads turn to look at the horse. Roach is rearing, having somehow gotten untied, with her ears flat against her head. As soon as her hooves hit the dirt, she takes off, cantering around the camp. Geralt curses and runs after her. He just barely manages to reach her with a shot of Axii, and then takes hold of her reins, guiding her back to a standstill.

As silence falls back over the camp, Geralt remains beside Roach, petting her neck to keep her calm. His eyes scan his surroundings. Nothing. Yet the horse's ears are still pinned back. She is panting, and he can see the whites of her eyes, despite his calming spell.

More crows scatter from nearby canopies in a cacophony of harsh cries.

The witcher wonders, with the start of a dreadful, sick feeling, if he really could've overlooked something.

Bristling, he moves to grab his swords, which lay on the ground by their bedrolls, only to find his steel sword _missing._

“What the fuck?” he says under his breath. His mind starts to run madly, digging through his mental bestiary for answers and coming up with nothing. An intelligent monster would've gone for the silver sword, perhaps carrying it away in its sheathe. That said, no humanoid he knew of—not even an elf—could possibly escape his senses. Not to this degree. So what—more likely _who—_ is accosting them?

The uncertainty infuriates Geralt—he’s _supposed_ to know the secrets of every abominable creature out there. He grabs his silver blade and bellows into the depths of the forest. “Show yourself!”

Moments later, a breeze comes over them, lifting white flower petals from the ground. They dance around the clearing, swirling above their heads. Then there’s laughter, faint and childlike. It seems to come from all directions at once. Geralt feels his skin tighten with goosebumps.

The bard scrambles to his feet and to the witcher’s side. He stands so their backs are together. “What’s going on?” 

Geralt grunts, having no better answer. He widens his stance and tightens the grip on his sword, holding it in front of himself at-the-ready. The river of petals slowly converges, taking the shape of a human female. She floats towards Jaskier, her long “hair” defying gravity behind her, making her look like she's underwater.

“You smell like _Vescailla._ Why are you here?” The voice is wispy, but accusatory. Geralt eyes her suspiciously as she moves closer to the bard. The petals quiver in suspension inches away from Jaskier's nose.

“We’re just passing through,” Geralt quickly answers. “We don’t want any trouble.”

“I do not speak to _you,_ ” she says sharply. Her gaze remains fixed on Jaskier.

The bard returns her attention with a stiff, wide-eyed stare. “M-my partner speaks the truth.”

“ _Indeed_.” Her tone turns cynical. She says to Geralt, giving him a perfunctory little wave, “Tread lightly, and you may pass unharmed. I know where this trail leads. Your _companion_ , however...” Like a wave lapping onto the shore, the figure’s arm gracefully rises, takes hold of Jaskier’s wrist and...

She yanks him violently towards herself.

“What th—” Jaskier stumbles forward and his words are cut short as he disappears in an instant, as if having passed through a curtain.

“Jaskier!” Geralt reaches out towards the place he once stood. The air around him ripples for a brief moment, like wind gliding over a pond. “What the fuck? Bring him back, you son of a bitch!” He waves his arms around the area, trying to feel for a portal, a barrier— _anything_ that might clue him in to what just happened. But there’s nothing there.

How is there...just...nothing?

He watches the flower petals, now inert, fall around his feet. Geralt is so wrapped up in his bewilderment that he nearly misses the glint above his head. He looks up just in time to dodge his steel sword, which drops to the ground with a clatter.

A crow circles above him, cawing away, sounding awfully like it were mocking him. The witcher narrows his eyes up at it, Jaskier’s hatred of the birds beginning to make a lot of sense. Geralt picks up his sword and swings the strap over his shoulder defeatedly.

Silence falls over the area. It's deafening and ominous as hell. He reaches up to ruffle his hair in frustration, desperate to stimulate his mind into figuring out what his next move should be. Jaskier is _gone_ , just like that, and he knows fuck-all about the creature that took him.

He closes his eyes tightly against the rising guilt. He’d sworn to protect the bard. If he wasn’t so cocky; if he hadn’t thought his heightened senses were flawless…if Jaskier’s hands weren’t so _distracting…_

He would not lose this beautiful thing.


	4. Chapter 4

"—the hell?” Jaskier cries out as he stumbles to a standstill. He looks around, fully expecting to have been pulled into another world, but finds he's still very much at their campsite. Everything _appears_ the same, so what’s the catch?

“ _Ugh_.” It's the female voice. Jaskier turns his head towards the sound and blinks in surprise. In place of the dancing flower petals now stands an ornery looking woman, who looks to be around his age. She’s got one slender hand perched on her hip, and the other hand slapped against her forehead in a dramatic display of...well, it _appears_ to be disappointment. But he can’t begin to guess what it’s got to do with _him_.

He’s instantly taken aback by her appearance. From her shoulder blades springs a set of wings, warm brown with gray speckles, not unlike those of a barn owl’s. A pair of grey horns, modest in size, sprout from her head. They point straight back, like a goat’s, but with a little twist to them. A sturdy wooden staff is strapped across her back. 

“What the fuck? Bring him back, you son of a bitch!” Geralt roars, looking around wildly.

The woman ignores the witcher completely. She’s glaring at Jaskier.

Jaskier’s first thought is that this woman must be a monster, perhaps something related to a siren or harpy. His second thought is that he needs saving, _fast_. 

“Um, uhh Geralt?” his voice cracks. He waves his hands to try to catch the witcher’s attention. Geralt doesn't notice. In fact, he’s looking right _through_ him. Jaskier begins gesturing enthusiastically towards the winged woman. “ _Hello?_ You seeing what I’m seeing?”

The woman is watching him with an eyebrow cocked. “ _What_ are you doing? You know he can't see or hear you.”

Jaskier glances at her briefly, his brow furrowed in deepening confusion, before returning his gaze to the witcher. Geralt is busy ruffling his white hair in frustration.

“Is she telling the truth?" the bard tries again. "Geralt...? Hey, _Geralt!_ ”

Ah. There's the catch.

With a huff, Jaskier walks forward and reaches out, intending to grab hold of Geralt’s arm. But his hand phases through the witcher as if he’s a ghost. Jaskier reels back in surprise. He looks down at his own hands to make sure they're still there, and then he sends the woman an accusatory stare. “Plowing hell, what did you _do_ to me?”

“Quiet,” she says. “ _I’m_ the one who gets to ask the questions. Now, tell me who—”

Her voice fades into the background of Jaskier's mind as he becomes distracted by the sight of Geralt stomping out their fire and gathering their things. _Shit! He's leaving!_ Jaskier attempts to grab hold of him again, but his hands continue phasing through the man. _Pox_ _!_ _There’s got to be a way to control my corporeality, otherwise she wouldn’t have been able to grab me to begin with!_ The witcher climbs swiftly onto Roach’s back. Jaskier’s bewilderment dips into panic. 

“Ah—wait! Geralt, don’t _leave_ me here! Hey!”

Roach gallops past him. Jaskier moves to follow, but the woman grabs the back of his shirt and pulls. “Don’t you _dare!_ ” she barks.

“Let me go _this instant_!” Jaskier pulls against her so hard the seams on his clothing begin to rip; He feels like a dog choking itself with its own collar. _Gods, she's strong!_ He watches, helpless, as the witcher disappears down the trail. Jaskier grimaces after him, vainly reaching out an arm. "Fuck..." he moans and slumps in defeat, straightening only when the woman gives his clothing another quick tug.

“Hello? Don't _ignore_ me _,”_ she says, and then tuts. "Skrulls...I swear to Gaia...”

Anger spills into his frame. Who is _she,_ to steal him away from Geralt like this? What gives _her_ the right to—She tugs again. He whips around, spitting a poisonous, “ _What?_ ”

“ _Who are you?_ ” The woman jabs a finger at his face and bares her teeth. Jaskier takes note of the pair of small, but nasty-looking fangs accompanying her otherwise very human mouth. His eyes begin to wander over the rest of her. She has long red hair, tied into a single braid behind her. Her skin is pale, and her cheeks are well peppered with freckles. “Don’t just stand there like a daft pigeon. Answer me!” She's dressed like a warrior, her outfit a mixture of gleaming bronze plates and tightly-woven plant fibers. 

“I’m just a _bard!_ ” Jaskier can feel hot tears forming. He isn’t sure what it is she wants him to say. But, judging by the anger deepening on her face, it definitely isn’t that.

“ _Fine_ _._ If you’re going to be a smart-ass...” She removes the staff from her back. Jaskier’s eyes widen.

“H-Hold on—” he says, holding up his hands and backing away. But his boots catch on something; His shoulder is jerked downwards with the force of his step—said _thing_ apparently anchored to it—and he falls backwards, _hard_. His lute digs into his spine and he cries out, both due to the explosion of pain in his back and the cracking sound of the wood beneath him.

Within seconds, the woman is looming over him with the end of her staff hovering beside his ear.

Jaskier wakes to a sharp throbbing on the side of his head. He's lying on his side. The warm earth has been replaced with cold tile, which presses uncomfortably against the bruise on his cheek. He blinks, waiting for his eyes to focus, and flinches when he realizes the object that so graciously blocked the bright light from his eyes is none other than the winged monster-woman.

“Welcome back,” she hisses, and then looks to the side. “He’s awake, Your Majesty.” She reaches for Jaskier. The bard raises his arms to protect his face, only then realizing his wrists have been bound. She takes hold of his arm and yanks him upright, so that he sits on his knees. The change in position makes his head pound as his blood pressure adjusts.

He looks around through a pained wince. He is in what appears to be an old castle that's been left for nature to reclaim. Although, he suspects this is by design, seeing how the building is still very much occupied. What he deduces must be guards, also winged—the colors range from browns, to light creams, or dove grays—goat horned and similarly dressed, stand at every doorway. Another figure approaches him: A man, this time, sporting great white wings with dappled black markings. Spiraling goat-like horns also adorn his head, but his are exceptionally long. He's wearing an ornate golden robe with red and white accents. Despite being addressed as “Your Majesty,” Jaskier sees no crown on his head.

The king folds his hands behind his back and paces slowly around Jaskier, scrutinizing him. His voice is deep, carrying a great weight with little effort. “Tell me, what is a skrull doing in my kingdom this time of year, cavorting with a human nonetheless?”

Jaskier tries to focus through the throbbing pain. “A…a what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” the woman says, flourishing her staff. “You were walking around under a glamour with that man. Why?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Jaskier says, praying his sincerity reaches them.

“Easy, Ren. He is unarmed,” says the king. Ren scrunches her nose, but retreats.

Jaskier looks between them. “Please believe me. I’m _just a bard_.”

The king looks into Jaskier’s eyes for an uncomfortably long time. “Perhaps the trespasser suffers from amnesia," he finally says. "Why don’t we take him to Vescailla and ask that she explain herself?”

“I’d rather break a sparrow’s neck,” says Ren. The king stares at her. “But, _Asper_ …” she whines. He continues to stare until she finally wilts. “Fine. Come on, ‘ _Jaskier_.’” She yanks him to a stand.

His head roars with pain once again. Too exhausted and confused to fight, he allows her to lead him through airy, sunlit hallways. Flowering vines pour in from the windows in colorful rivers on the walls, which spill over the floors. In a less life-threatening situation, he would’ve loved to stop and admire the way the light shines through the petals.

They swing into an atrium with a large pool in the center. The sun streams in through a glass ceiling. Colorful mosaics cover the walls, depicting scenes with winged creatures just like Ren, doing different activities in different seasons: waking animals from their dens, causing trees to flower, and knocking ripe fruit from their boughs.

Ren takes him by the water. Jaskier looks down, trying not to slip on the wet floor, and he catches a glimpse of his reflection. The sight makes him do a double-take and stop short. What he sees is a _monster_.

“What the _fuck?_ ” He stumbles away from the pool, nearly falling a second time. He realizes, with mixed feelings, what he’s been tripping over: Wings. Big, glossy, black wings. The outermost feathers are so long that their tips drag along the ground. He’s shocked he's only just now noticing them; Although, to be fair, he’s been quite occupied with a whirlwind of arguments, bewilderment, and a whole lot of _unnecessary_ pain up until this moment.

Ren holds him firmly, keeping him from losing his balance. She stares at him like he’s insane, but allows him to slowly approach the water again. He peers down at himself with a mixture of horror and fascination. Deer-like antlers sit atop his head—different from Ren’s and the king’s—and the blue of his eyes have become much more intense, almost otherworldly, closer in color to lapis than to the sky. And those wings…

He figures out how to move them, with some difficulty, feeling like a toddler learning to walk. He extends them slowly and unevenly while his brain struggles to create connections related to controlling the new set of limbs.

Ren watches him with increasing interest. Her look of anger gradually melts into one of concern. “Blessed Gaia, you weren’t lying, were you?” she says. “You really don’t have any clue about what’s going on…about what you are.”

“No,” he breathes, still staring mystified at himself.

Ren stands beside him for a long moment, both of them looking at his reflection. He sees her suddenly ball her free hand into a fist and then lift her head in a long, annoyed sigh. “Promise me you’re going to cooperate,” she says. He looks at her questioningly, and she adds, “ _Please_ don’t embarrass me in front of Vescailla. She'll never shut up about it.”

Before he can answer, she bends down and pulls a crude obsidian knife from her boot. He tenses, watching as she cuts the binding from his arms. He sighs in relief and rubs his sore wrists. Then, he reaches up to grasp his antlers, curious and unable to help himself. A shiver runs down his spine. They’re extremely sensitive.

“Let’s go.” Ren tugs on his sleeve, but no longer grips him tightly. They continue on.

“Why are they so…feely?”

“Our horns? They detect changes in barometric pressure. The sensitivity is handy for predicting the weather. It's also handy for…um, other things.” She clears her throat and keeps her gaze firmly ahead. Her pace quickens.

They exit the palace and take a wooded path, eventually coming upon an open field on the edge of the woods where wild horses graze. Ren leads Jaskier into the herd. He's surprised to find the horses don’t seem spooked by their presence. With her free hand, Ren whistles. A dappled gray mare trots up to them. Ren climbs onto her back with ease. Jaskier's eyebrows lift.

“No saddle? Reins?” he says.

“That’s cute. Hop on.” She extends a hand and helps pull him up behind her. She holds lightly onto the horse’s mane.

 _Are you not flying today, Lady Ren?_ Jaskier can hear the mare ask.

He thinks, _She can talk to them, too?_

“Not today,” Ren says.

 _Injured wing?_ asks the mare.

“Dead weight.”

The horse snorts in the closest thing it has to a laugh. _Where to, then?_

“We’re headed to Vescailla’s palace.”

_Are you sure?_

“Unfortunately.”

_As you wish._

“Hold on,” Ren says to Jaskier. She guides his hands around her waist. He does so lightly, feeling quite awkward. But then she says, “No, really. Hold on.” The horse takes off, galloping across the field. Jaskier hugs her for dear life.

* * *

Geralt shoves Aedirnian guardsmen aside as he storms through the halls of Vengerberg’s castle. They yell and follow after him, but are knocked back with a curt blast of Aard. After a near four-day journey eastwards, consisting of little sleep and an arduous ride across the Mahakam mountains, Geralt no longer had the patience for social courtesies.

“Yennefer!” he barks. He can hear the guards catching back up to him.

The enchantress emerges from her study moments later. She spies him, raises a hand, and the guards stop. One of them says, “But, Lady Yenne—”

“I will take it from here, gentlemen. Thank you.” Her voice is as icy as ever. Geralt doesn't look back. He waits until the clatter of armor fades away before he speaks.

“I need your help.”

“Greetings to you as well.” Yennefer crosses her arms. She waits, perhaps for an apology for showing up unannounced, but eventually softens under his imploring look. “Come,” she sighs.

He follows her into the study and sits at a table across from her. She folds her hands over the wood and looks at him with penetrating violet eyes.

“What’s all this noise about?”

Geralt leans forward. “A few days ago, we were attacked by something in the forest. Some creature unknown to me.”

“Who is this ‘we’?” The enchantress lifts an eyebrow.

“That’s not important.”

“Geralt,” she says coldly, “You know how I feel about sincerity. If you hide details from me, I simply will not help you.”

The witcher bites his lip. “Fine. There’s this bard I’ve been traveling with and—”

“What in the world are you doing traipsing around with a troubadour?”

Geralt ignores her. “Jaskier, he was—”

“Jaskier the poet? Of Oxenfurt renown?”

The witcher throws out his hands, exasperated both by her words and her constant interruptions. “Seriously? Am I the only one who didn’t know who he was?”

The enchantress examines her black polished nails. “He is well known in the northern kingdoms. I’ve seen him perform, as he frequents the courts of monarchs. His skill is unmatched. _Ethereal_ , some say.”

Geralt frowns. He dislikes hearing her sing the bard’s praises so matter-of-factly. The same possessive flame from earlier roars to life inside him. Yennefer’s eyes flick back up to meet his own, looking amused and a little _too_ knowing. She sits back in her chair, crosses her arms, and waits patiently for him to pull his shit together.

Geralt clears his throat and pointedly jabs his finger into the table. “This creature took an interest in Jaskier,” he says. “She whisked him away across some type of veil. I _need_ to get him back.”

“Interesting. Where did this incident occur?”

“A patch of woods in southwest Temeria.”

“Describe this creature.”

“Invisible and able to evade my detection completely. She appeared to us as a swarm of white petals in humanoid form, demanding to know what we were doing there. Had one of her crow friends steal my steel sword.”

"Not silver?" Yennefer is silent for a long moment. “If that’s true, it’s possible you’re dealing with a member of the fae.”

The witcher stares. The word meant nothing to him. “What do you know about them?”

“I know they’re proud and clever creatures, and they are not to be trifled with.”

“ _Meaning?_ ”

“Whatever you do, you’ll need to approach with the utmost respect and caution, or I suspect they’d gladly tear your soul from your body, render it senseless, and feed your flesh to their...'crow friends.'"

The possibility of Jaskier having met with such a fate makes Geralt seethe. He gnashes his teeth, curls his hands into fists, and fights to contain his rising anger. The witcher quickly loses the battle and slams his fist against the table. “What the fuck could they want with a bard? He’s a defenseless idiot!”

Rather than reprimanding Geralt for the outburst, Yennefer simply shakes her head. A few of her wavy black locks fall around her neck, accentuating the crystal-studded pentacle that hangs against it. Her eyes are apologetic; a rare expression for her. “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

“He’s been with them for days, assuming he’s even alive. Get to the point, Yen. How do I defeat these monsters?”

The enchantress twists her lips disapprovingly. “They are not _monsters_ , Geralt. While we don’t know much about them, we do know they are quite civilized. The fae were here before the Conjunction of the Spheres, before the elves, dwarves—before even the gnomes. They are of the earth—manifestations of Gaia herself. Two races are known: sprites and skrulls. You can think of them as representing two sides of the same coin. Both fulfill necessary functions to maintain a healthy ecosystem. However, one is far more amicable towards humankind than the other. It is important to recognize which you’re dealing with and act accordingly.”

“But how do I _defeat_ them?”

“Your best chance is to try and make a deal. Fae culture emphasizes karmic weight and bargaining, apparently. Their only known interactions with our kind have been in the form of these cryptic transactions. They despise the feeling of being indebted to someone. But they will gladly collect debts from others. So, if you find the bard, be prepared to trade something for him.”

“Like?”

“That depends on the faery.”

“What about the fact that they’re invisible? How am I supposed to find them? How am I supposed to get through that veil?”

“You don’t need to cross the veil. Besides, that’s only possible if they bring you along with them. There is no breaking into the faery realm,” says the enchantress. “That said, they have eyes and ears all over the forest. Often, all you need is to bring an offering—they are partial to bread, honey and wine—and tell them you’d like to strike a deal. They will come to you, although it may take a while, and they will not reveal themselves to just anyone.”

“And if things go poorly? What can I defend myself with, if not silver?”

“It is said that iron is especially damaging to a faery; such wounds will not clot or cauterize, and the faery in question, even if it manages to escape, will bleed to death. Inevitably. That is likely why she took your sword from you until the exchange was over. Steel is tempered iron, after all."

“Any chance you’ll help me?”

“I’m afraid you’re on your own with this one, Wolf. I have no quarrel with the fae, and I don’t intend to start one.” She stands slowly. “I would offer to portal you back to Temeria, but I know how you feel about such methods of travel. There is, however, a rather convenient happenstance…” She walks over to the window and peers into the courtyard. “Saskia is visiting, discussing politics with the king in the garden. They should be finishing up by now.”

The witcher wastes no time standing and heading for the door. “I’ll speak with her. Thank you, Yen.”

“Geralt.”

He turns. The enchantress closes the distance between them. She takes his shoulders and says, “Be careful. Tempting as it may be, you can’t go into this as a Witcher, hopped up on potions and brandishing a weapon. You must be tactful.”

“I will.”

She pulls him into a hug. “ _Promise_ me, Geralt.” He closes his eyes for a moment, taking in the familiar scent of lilac and gooseberry. He’d missed it.

“I’ll do what I can. But I’m taking a break from promises.”

Saskia, queen of the Pontar Valley, is sitting on a stone bench beside Demavend, king of Aedirn. Geralt waits patiently, lounging against a column of the breezeway, until they finally stand and shake hands. Both bow respectfully and then the king takes his leave.

Demavend quickly takes notice of Geralt from across the yard and appears concerned. One of the guards whispers into his ear. He seems appeased by what he is told—Yennefer no doubt spread word around the castle of the witcher’s business there—and he disappears with them inside.

Saskia, watching all of this, waves at the witcher. “Geralt?”

He approaches. “How've you been?”

“I am well. I was just discussing the most recent threat of Nilfgaardian invasion with Demavend. Henselt of Kaedwen has been sending aid and the caravans must pass through my valley in order to—oh, never mind that. I tire of politics. What brings you to Vengerberg?”

“Counsel from Yennefer. Listen, Saskia, I have a favor to ask. I need to get back to Temeria, quickly.”

“You wish to borrow my wings,” she says, a spirited glint in her eye. “Very well. I was on my way out. I hope your horse isn’t afraid of heights.” She closes her eyes and shapeshifts into her true form: the dragon Saesenthessis. She lays down, allowing Geralt to climb onto her back. He barely has time to find a comfortable place between her dorsal spines before she takes to the air. He looks down at the castle retreating from him and swallows, deciding to try and keep his eyes forward. The heights made him a little dizzy, but it still beat a plowing portal.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song:  
> [Soldier, Poet, King](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MzVKsltzYdI) by [The Oh Hellos](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCwfDOdW0FOILPpwJBcA62wQ)
> 
> Vescailla's name is pronounced "Ve-say-lah"
> 
> Also, I’m just gonna apologize ahead of time for the massive info-dump that is this chapter. You can make it through this—I believe in you!

Jaskier stares uneasily at the palace they approach. Carved right out of the mountainside, it emerges slowly out of the rocks like an earth elemental. Great stone gargoyles crouch on the gutters, still spitting water from a recent rain. The roof erupts into intimidating-looking spires that come to such a fine point they’d surely skewer any bird foolish enough to land on one.

In spite of this, there are birds. Lots of them. Murders of crows and unkindnesses of ravens are gathered on the gently sloping, clay-tiled rooftops between the spires. They begin to make noise when Jaskier and Ren reach the stone bridge, betraying their presence to the guards camped on the battlements.

Ren is stopped at the gate only briefly. They’re allowed through after she flashes an insignia on her shoulder. She thanks the gray mare and leaves her outside, and then swiftly pulls Jaskier into the great hall.

Nervousness creeps over the bard as he looks around at the interior of the cavernous building Ren so easily let consume them. Perhaps early spring simply hasn’t made it to these elevations, but he immediately notices how... _lifeless_ a place this is compared to where he’d come from. There are no plants creeping in through the windows, only the withered spines of vines past. The architecture does not go out of the way to invite the sun inside.

They reach a large central room with arching, open ceilings. It’s the brightest area of the castle by a great margin, allowing the most natural light, which diffuses through many tall, frosted windows with arching, decorative panes; similar in style to stained glass, but without the spectrum of color.

As if having drank the saturation from the windows, an ornate painting takes up much of the ceiling. Jaskier can’t help but admire it. A gangly, humanoid creature with a moose skull for a head and a body covered in mossy bark, stands with an arm extended. It sends a tangle of vines towards a group of weapon-wielding humans—one of which has two swords and piercing yellow eyes, just like Geralt.

Jaskier recognizes the beast whose head hung from the witcher’s saddle so many months ago, and more intimately from a lullaby sung to children before bed, warning them never to wander the forests alone: a leshen. 

“Vescailla,” Ren’s borderline impertinent voice makes him look back down.

Across the room, a woman, slender like willow branches and angular like cleaved obsidian, sits on a throne made of thick, leafless vines. Shining black hair flows over her shoulder in graceful waves, reaching nearly to her hips. She has an impressive set of antlers, wide and branching, like a deer’s—like his own. She rhythmically taps a set of claw-like nails against the armrest, watching them with discerning heron-blue eyes as they approach.

“ _Commander Ren_ ,” she tiredly drawls, and then yawns, showing off her own pair of sharp incisors. Her arms lift high above her head and her inky curtain of wings extend out on either side of her in a stretch. The tips of the outermost primary feathers brush against the creamy marble columns lining either side of the echoing room before folding neatly back in on themselves. She looks down at them dully. “What an _unwelcome_ surprise. What is it _this_ time?”

“Found one of yours in our woods,” Ren says. She pulls Jaskier in front of herself. The bard stumbles forward and stands hunched between them. He glances nervously back at Ren, and then to the queen.

Vescailla slumps to the side, lazily resting her cheek against her bony knuckles. “Mmm. I didn’t send anyone in your direction. While you continue to maintain shockingly little faith in us, you cannot deny that I’ve been good about letting you have your turn with the woods after the equinox.”

“He was _decloaked_ ,” Ren adds.

The queen directs her attention towards Jaskier. Her eyes are sharp and judging. Jaskier feels like he’s being appraised by a predator for his quality as a snack. The corner of Vescailla’s lip pulls upwards in a snarl. “Try not to be so _careless_ , boy. You want to get yourself killed? You want all of the continent to know where we are? If I hear of this happening again, I’ll clip your wings and feed you to the ravens.”

“I wasn’t finished,” says Ren. “While he _was_ visible to those across the veil, his true form remained hidden under a _human_ glamour.”

The queen lifts her head. Her eyes narrow at Jaskier and her words become poisonous. “Care to explain yourself? Because the only way that’s possible is that you’ve been getting friendly with a human mage—a _deadly_ offense, might I add— _or_ …” she trails off, sitting straighter.

“ _Or_ ,” the sprite echoes. She puts her hands on her hips and steps forward, levelling with Jaskier. “ _Curiously_ , he seems to have no idea he’s a skrull. Nearly fainted at the sight of his own wings earlier.”

The queen looks straight at the bard. Her eyes have become wide and seeking, like an owl’s. “Truly?”

“Yeah. You’re welcome,” Ren bites. Then Jaskier hears her mutter under her breath, “And I’m an idiot.”

Vescailla leans forward in her seat, examining Jaskier. He fights not to squirm as a satisfied smirk appears on the fae queen’s face and breaks slowly into a grin as her next words unfold. “I see it now. Deep blue eyes...impressive antlers…feathers that shine like a raven’s…” She points a long finger at him. “Is that a lute across your back?”

Jaskier instinctively grips the strap across his chest. “I’m a bard, by profession.”

“What is your name, child?”

“Jaskier.”

Vescailla hums, seemingly satisfied. Her eyes narrow in a perceptive, _hungry_ look that makes the bard’s hair stand on end. “It’s been a _terribly_ dull day here, Jaskier. Would you sing for us? Show us your talents?”

Unsure, Jaskier glances at Ren. The sprite rolls her eyes—seemingly at the queen—and perfunctorily gestures for him to go on. Jaskier removes the lute from his bruised back, mindful of his wings and wincing the entire time, already anticipating what he’ll find. The instrument is damaged beyond repair. The neck is snapped, the strings are broken and the body fractured. His suspicions confirmed, the loss hits him at once. It takes everything in him not to cry. Jaskier bites his lip and runs his fingers mournfully across the wood

“We had a good run, old friend,” he murmurs.

“Oh! Gaia’s mercy, that won’t do.” The queen’s loud voice draws his attention upwards.

He looks at her apologetically. Vescailla snaps her fingers. Jaskier stiffens and looks around, waiting for somebody to grab him and wrestle him down to a dungeon or something equally unpleasant for displeasing the monarch. He is instead approached by an attendant carrying the most expensive-looking lute he’s ever seen. They kneel and present it to him like it’s a knight’s sword. Jaskier blinks down at it, shocked, and then looks at the queen questioningly.

“Well? Go on,” she waves dismissively. “It’s yours.”

Afraid that this is a cruel joke, Jaskier is slow to set his old instrument down beside him, and slower to take the new one into his hands. He smooths his fingertips over the dark, polished mahogany, tracing over the intricate knotwork designs carved onto the front. It reminds him of the art found across the Skellige isles.

He plucks a few of the strings and shivers. It’s already perfectly tuned. The thought sneaks up on him, that he’s the first person to ever use the instrument. He doesn’t know _how_ he knows, only that it seemed to hum with an air of purity, like freshly fallen snow, _begging_ for somebody to make their impression on it.

Jaskier clears his throat, breathes deeply and steps forward, performing a song that is popularly requested in courts:

_There will come a soldier,  
Who carries a mighty sword,  
He will tear your city down, o lei, o lai, o lord...  
_

He warbles, hitting the high notes perfectly. The instrument vibrates against him, humming flawlessly along, like it was _made just for him_. What a feeling! He smiles around his words, temporarily forgetting about his current predicament.

_...There will come a poet,_  
_Whose weapon is his word, He will slay you with his tongue, o lei, o lai—_

Vescailla’s applause interrupts his flow. “Well done, child. You’ve the voice of a songbird. Fitting, for a skrull prince.”

In an instant, Jaskier’s soaring heart drops like a lark shot mid-air. “What?”

The queen folds her hands neatly on her lap. “You think I’d give that mastercrafted lute to just any old minstrel that strolled into my court? No. You belong to _me,_ Buttercup.”

Fear creeps over him, wrapping itself cold and heavy around his limbs. “I don’t understand.”

“Jaskier…” Ren begins empathetically, but she seems to have second thoughts. Instead, she takes hold of his sleeve and gives it a little tug. “Come with me.”

“ _You’re_ not taking him _anywhere._ ” Vescailla stands, her wings half spread and her piercing horns towering over them. “Did you not hear me, Commander? Jaskier is _mine_.”

“Just let me talk with him.”

“And give you more time to poison his mind with your flowery spritey nonsense?”

“I only need a few minutes, and then I’ll leave him with you,” Ren says. “Please, Your Grace.”

Vescailla appears taken aback by her politeness. She crosses her arms. “I’m giving you five.”

“ _Ten.”_

The queen glares, then turns her head away, with her chin upturned. Ren swiftly leads Jaskier out the door and around the corner.

“Can’t believe I didn’t see this coming,” she mutters. “Should’ve known better..." She finds a balcony off a hallway and pulls him onto it, taking care to close the doors behind them. She leans her back against the wood, takes a deep breath, and then looks up at the bard. “Your human mother died in childbirth.”

“How did you—”

Ren holds up a hand and he trails off. “That’s what happens when the fae claim a baby. Your father must have made a deal with the queen.”

“ _Claim_ a—what are you talking about? My father was a practical man. It doesn’t sound like something he’d let happen.”

Ren hums in understanding. “I’m sure you’re right. But consider that people will do out-of-character things when desperate.”

He crosses his arms. “What would possibly cause him so much desperation that he’d barter with a faery?”

“You.”

He leans forward. “ _How?_ ”

Ren doesn’t move, and her expression doesn't change, despite Jaskier's antlers coming within inches of her face. “Vescailla _claimed_ you. It is customary to trade a life for another life.”

“I don’t remember anything of the sort happening.”

“That’s because this would’ve happened in your infancy. Are you listening?” she says, and presses a finger into his forehead until he yields and stands straight. “My guess is your father heard news that something went wrong during the pregnancy and that you were fated to die in the womb. So, he goes to the fae, begging for us to save you. What he likely wasn’t told was that human mothers always die when giving birth to a fae child.”

Jaskier leans back dramatically and throws a hand in the air. “Oh. Good! Vescailla killed my mother, then?”

Ren only looks away, her brow furrowed. Neither of them speak for a moment. Jaskier opens and closes his hands into fists, trying to dispel the anxiety her words were creating.

His mind combs over Ren’s theoretical tale, searching for holes, not wanting to believe it. But all he digs up are things that reinforced the idea: His ability to commune with animals, his talent for music that came a bit _too_ naturally to him, his having no memories of his mother, other than her mossy tombstone...

Jaskier sets his jaw and looks at the tiled floor. He isn’t about to admit Ren was likely right. He also knows he doesn’t need to.

“I’m sorry,” she eventually says. “I know this isn’t easy to hear, but you have the right to know. Vescailla won’t tell you on her own. Even though it’s a basic part of her biology, it’s near-impossible to get her to humble herself enough to openly admit to _needing_ someone else.”

Jaskier scoffs. “But...Why _does_ she need a human?”

“We faeries can live a long time—hundreds, in some cases thousands of years. Asper is fairly young. But Vescailla is getting on in age. She needed an heir and we don’t reproduce in the same way humans do. We, by that I mean _she_ , needs a host to carry her child to term. The only way for her to pass her undiluted essence into another being is by reaching a child grown in a womb of flesh and blood.” 

Jaskier’s eyes rise to find her’s again, taken aback by the strangeness of her words. “I still don’t understand. Why a human? Why not find another fairy to imbibe?”

“Well, technically it doesn’t _have_ to be a human. It could be an elf, halfling or a dwarf. Humans are simply the most ...populous. The point is, all other faeries are _sterile_ except for the monarchs: Asper and Vescailla. But Asper’s genes are incompatible with Vescailla’s. I’m sure you’ve noticed we’re different species.”

“I had a hunch.” He pauses to think, and then says, “So are you _all_ born from human hosts?”

Ren holds up her hands. “Gods, no! No, it’s _just_ the skrull heir. The rest of us are…hmm. How do I explain this?” She places a knuckle over her lip, her green eyes rising to the sky. “I suppose the closest comparison I can make is that we’re pollinated.”

“Like a _plant?_ ”

She nods. “You can think of Vescailla as a queen bee of sorts. Asper as well. They create all of us ‘workers,’ but we are incapable of reproducing ourselves. We have nurseries where trees called a ghost’s purse are cultivated. We depend on these plants for the continuation of the species just as much as we depend on our monarch—we evolved together, symbiotically, over hundreds of thousands of years. While we all share a single parent, the trees offer genetic variation. Following so far?”

Jaskier nods, a little dumbfounded.

“Similar to ferns, our monarchs grow these little spori underneath their wings during the late spring. This pollen-like substance matures around the same time the ghost’s purse comes into flower. So, several times over the following weeks, Asper and Vescailla will fly across the fields, scattering these spores into the air so they’ll reach the blooms. Young faeries develop in the ovule of the flower, just like seeds, and a fruit grows around us like a womb. When the faelings are ripe in late fall, they are plucked from the branches by midwives and cleaned of the jelly.”

“The difference between you and other faeries,” she goes on, “is _blood_. You were born from a womb of flesh. A normal faery shares a diluted fraction of our monarch’s essence—those spores contain the largest dose of it the trees can take in without being destroyed. But flesh is stronger. The amount of essence contained in the single grain of pollen that spawned us is also within a single one of your blood cells. In other words, you received a potent dose of Vescailla’s essence. It replicates itself in your marrow. It’s not just _in_ you, it _is_ you.”

“But what difference does the strength of her 'essence' make, aside from these pretty horns and wings?”

“ _Power_.” Ren’s voice becomes grave. “Vescailla is ancient and is able to wield strong magic. She is connected _directly_ to the elemental energies of this land, passively absorbing it, the same way cats or dragons do.” She pauses, searching his eyes for something, and then throws out her hands. “Don’t you get it? Lying dormant inside of you is incredible potential for magic. Her strength is woven into the fabric of your body. You _radiate_ with it. She gave you your ethereal voice, your ageless face, your name…”

“ _Jaskier_ ,” he says softly. The word suddenly felt foreign on his lips. As much his own as those unwieldly godsforsaken wings.

Ren takes a step towards him, her eyes still searching his for something he couldn’t guess, and says, “Listen. She’s going to take you in as her heir. She’s going to train you to wield powers like her own. She’s going to make you into a proper skrull, Jaskier. But don’t become like her. _Promise_ me you’re going to use your strength for peace.”

His eyes widen. He takes a step back. Sudden as an avalanche, he can feel the weight of responsibility bearing down on him, as if the mountain beneath them inverted to rest on his shoulders. “I—” He turns away from her, clawing at the stone railing.

This isn’t _fair._ All this time he’s been whisked along, being told who he is and what he has to do, never once being asked how he felt.

“I don’t want any of this!” His voice echoes into the rocky chasm below. “I don’t want anything to do with being a faery, a prince…what you make sound like some kind of a plowing _deity_.” He pauses, swallowing down the lump in his throat. “I just…want to travel the world and sing. All I want is to _be with_ —” he stops himself before he says too much and closes his eyes, grimacing against the ache in his chest.

A silence falls over them, gaping and barbed like a dragon’s yawn. Jaskier stands from the railing and rubs the goosebumps from his arms. Ren moves to stand beside him and looks into the distance as the sun sets over the rolling Temerian hills.

“This isn’t an invitation.” She speaks gently, like a mother soothing a child. “You can’t just…go back. When I pulled you across the veil, it dispelled the glamour that had been in place your entire life, which made you appear human and kept most of your abilities dormant.”

Jaskier fixates on the rocks far below. He fights the urge to test his wings by leaping from the balcony, yearning to soar into the stony depths so he might find a crevice to hide in. To process all of this. But his wings feel awkward and clumsy. He’d only fall to his death.

He’s tired. He’s hungry. He’s frightened. The bruise on his head throbs, chipping away at his patience.

“So what,” he says bitterly. “Can’t you cast a new glamour on me and let me go?”

“I would if I could. But Vescailla is the only one able to cast that level of magic. To say the spell disguising you was strong is a gross understatement. It lasted for many decades and was near-impenetrable. Even the human world’s most talented mage couldn’t cast a glamour so effortlessly permanent.”

His eyes narrow and he gives her a sideways glare. “Yet, crossing the veil broke it. Just like that. Why?”

“Only because that’s how the spell was designed.” She looks at him. Jaskier wrinkles his nose and turns his head the other away. “Please, I know you’re frustrated. But I’m telling you the truth. Vescailla knows that destiny will bring a child she claims to her feet eventually. She knows they’ll want to run back to their old life. Dispelling the glamour effectively traps them here.”

Jaskier’s eyes settle on a larkspur that clings to the cliffside, swaying in the wind. “Well, what about the king? Asper, you called him? He’s a monarch, couldn’t he cast a glamour?”

“It’s true he shares her authority. But he isn’t like her. We sprites aren’t capable of wielding more than simple magic. No. Asper cannot help you.”

Jaskier curses under his breath. “ _You_ yanked me into this world. Can’t you just pull me back out?”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

He spins around to her. His upper lip curls above his new pair of fangs in a snarl, his patience reaching its limit. 

Ren steps back, raising her hands. “Jaskier, you have to understand. Going back into the human world looking the way you do? It would be _suicide_. Faery parts are used by humans in all sorts of magical elixirs. A creature with your splendor—You would have _dozens_ of contracts for your head.”

She pauses and makes a face, seeming to despise the thought. “You’d be relentlessly hunted, like an animal. And what would you do? It’s like you said. You’re just a bard. You don’t know magic, you don’t know how to fight, and you’re clueless about how to use any of your natural fae abilities. Admit it. You would be defenseless, wouldn’t you?”

He says nothing.

She steps towards him. “ _Wouldn’t_ you?”

“Plow it all...” he mutters.

Ren softens. “Look...I know I took you away from what you love. Destiny played me like the lute on your back. And for that, I’m sorry.”

Jaskier is silent, unsure of whether he was ready to accept her apology. Flashes of snow-white hair, calloused palms and old scars flit past his mind’s eye. The ache in his chest returns with force.

He starts when there’s a piercing knock on the glass of the balcony doors. One of the guards is tapping his armored knuckle against it, and then beckons them with a flip of his hand.

Jaskier hunches his shoulders and stalks back inside. _Fine._ _If that’s what Vescailla wants, then I’ll let her train me. I’ll learn and I’ll practice until I’m strong enough to glamour my own damn self, and then I’ll leave this place._


	6. Chapter 6

“This is as far as I can take you,” Saesenthessis says, circling many miles away from a small Temerian village. “I fear if I venture closer, I’ll be putting myself in danger of being shot at.”

She hovers above a remote, grassy hill. Her scaly hands gently set Roach’s hooves on the ground before landing beside her. The horse stumbles a little before finding her feet. Then, she snorts and shakes her windswept mane.

Geralt slides off Saesenthessis’ back and goes to comfort the horse, knowing the journey must have been disorienting, to say the least, for a mammal as firmly land-bound as herself. After a few moments of stroking her withers, the witcher says, “Roach can take it from here. Thank you, Saskia.”

Saesenthessis shifts back into her human guise. “Geralt,” Saskia says. “I believe destiny had a hand in our paths crossing again. I feel it’s time I make it up to you for saving my life in Velen all those years ago.”

Geralt sighs inwardly. _Here we go again. It’s always “destiny this” and “fate that” no matter who I talk to._

“The ride here was enough.”

“No,” She steps forward. “I see that look on your face, Witcher. I know what you believe, but please don’t make a fuss.” She pulls out a small, red, glassy-looking sphere and holds it up so that the sun shines through it. “This is called a dragon’s eye. If you shatter it, it will summon me to your side. You can use it only once, so be wise about it.” She sets it in his palm and closes his fingers over it.

“Thank you.” He slips it into a pocket.

“Until next time.”

Geralt picks up fresh-baked bread and the finest local honey and wine on offer from the nearest tavern. It’s another half a day’s ride back to the woods. He finds the same grove where Jaskier was taken and lays out the offerings, spreading some of the honey on the bread and pouring the wine into a chalice. He sits cross legged in front of them.

“I speak to the fae of these woods! Um...” _Gods, I have no idea what I’m doing..._ Geralt clears his throat and raises his voice again. “I offer this food and drink in exchange for an audience. I’d like to make a deal.”

He waits and listens for a long moment, receiving only silence. Realizing he may be there a while—Yennefer had said as much—he decides to close his eyes and meditate.

The harsh croaking of a raven is what eventually wakes him. The large black bird looms in a nearby tree. It leans forward, cocking its head down at Geralt. Then, it flutters down to his feet.

He can distinguish its black pupils from its deep brown irises from this distance. They pin excitedly, scrutinizing him with deep intelligence. The bird takes the bread into its beak and flies away. Geralt allows it, hopeful that is how the exchange is supposed to work. The fae are friends with the animals, right?

His medallion begins to vibrate. Suddenly, the chalice at his feet floats into the air and tips. Geralt’s eyes widen, watching as the wine pours out of the side and disappears into nothingness.

“Toussaint Red, good choice,” a female voice purrs. “But you’re not some desperate peasant; you're a _witcher_. Be honest. Have you truly come to strike a deal, or are you here on contract?”

Geralt lowers his head humbly. “I’m not here to harm anybody. Your people have someone I would like back.”

The chalice hovers, level with Geralt’s medallion, and swirls casually, stirring the wine. “Oh? Who might that be?”

“Jaskier—colorful outfit, carries a lute, incredibly chatty. About a week ago, he was taken by—”

The faery’s laughter cuts him off. “Sorry. No deal.”

“What?” he barks. Sharp, protective anger ripples through him. He fights the instinct to draw his weapon right then and there. _Tact,_ he remembers Yennefer’s voice. “What do you need with a human bard?”

The voice hums, the pitch rising and falling in an evaluating lilt. “You really don’t know? Hmm...I _suppose_ that would make sense, seeing how you were found traveling with him, rather than with his decapitated head.” She chuckles, unrestrained, like a child. “Oh, the maiden of fate must be having a good laugh at the irony. But this changes nothing. You can't have him back, witcher. He's ours.”

Geralt stands and unsheathes his dagger. _Fuck tact._

“Brandishing the iron already? I was prepared to give you the benefit of doubt, but it seems it’s true what they say about your kind. Each one of you, killing machines lacking in empathy. Suffice to say Jaskier doesn’t belong with the likes of you.”

Geralt grips the handle of the blade with a shaking fist. His teeth grind against one other. His nose wrinkles in a snarl. He slashes the space in front of him with a roar. The chalice glides to the side as the faery easily avoids the metal. Then, it rises into the tree. She seems to settle there beside the raven, the cup suspended amongst the young leaves.

Geralt steps back, cursing under his breath, disappointed in himself. This faery creature may be a prick, but as far as he knows she is an innocent, she is intelligent, and he should know better. He sheaths the weapon and raises his hands.

“I…apologize for my rash actions.”

There’s a long pause before the faery speaks. The chalice drops, as if to perch on her knee. “My, my…I stand corrected. You show surprising depth of emotion. I didn’t realize this was such a touchy subject for you.”

Another pause. “Witcher, you’ve earned my pity, so I won’t leave you empty handed. Know this: Jaskier is alive. He is safe, and he is well. I hope that knowledge is enough for you. Because no amount of pleading, magic or tantrum-throwing will get you through the veil to him. You should move on to your next job. He’s already forgotten about you, as there are more important things he’s had to attend to.”

Geralt stares, paralyzed by her words.

The empty chalice falls gently to rest on a bough, where it remains. The raven croaks and flies off; The faery supposedly takes her leave with it.

The witcher looks down in thought. What other options does he have? None. Yennefer's advice was his best bet. The fae are incredibly secretive. No one he knows, in all his years of travel and acquaintance gathering, interacted with a faery. The only reason Yennefer knows about their existence is from some dusty old tomes and single spell for a life-extending elixir requiring faery parts—for those lucky few who manage to get their hands on them.

His next thought is painful, but realistic. He should guard his sanity by believing the faery’s words. The bard is alive—doing well, even. It’s all Geralt can do.

But, despite what Jaskier had apparently done, the witcher can’t simply _forget_ about him.

* * *

“Can't say I'm fond of these wings,” Jaskier says, stretching them out awkwardly. “They’re quite cumbersome.”

“They only feel that way because your mind grew up without knowing they were there," says Vescailla. "I understand. They feel like an attachment rather than a natural part of you; a hindrance to your movements that you must now change your habits to work around.”

She paces around him, lifting a finger matter-of-factly. “Right now, you’re as useful to me as a faeling still moist with jelly. But we are going to change that. A faery is not a faery until he is able to fly.”

Pausing behind him, she grabs the wrists of his wings and pulls them higher. “Firstly, you aren’t holding them high enough not to trip over them. It is the same as proper posture of the spine. Get into the habit of holding them upright and your muscles will develop around it.”

Jaskier holds them where she leaves them for a moment, feeling them weigh on his chest and back muscles. He flinches when she prods the base of his spine, prompting him to straighten himself.

“There. _That_ is how a prince should carry himself. No more slouching, Buttercup.” She returns to his front. “Open and close your wings for me. There you go—don’t let them droop! Wrists higher! Higher, I say! Good. Pay attention to how it feels. Memorize the way the muscles move.”

The tip of Jaskier’s tongue protrudes from his lips in concentration. He was only just getting the hang of controlling their basic movements, but he couldn’t seem to make the pair of them work together.

“This feels like trying to write with the opposite hand,” he whines.

“Keep at it. I want to see symmetrical flapping by lunch time.”

Vescailla returns hours later. She doesn’t greet him, only gestures at him expectantly. “Show me.”

Jaskier beats his wings, keeping the wrists high and level with one another. He feels a little silly, like a swan rearing from the surface of a lake to flap seemingly just for the sake of it.

“Excellent,” says the queen. “Now you must get on the roof.”

“The…what?”

“Get on the roof,” she repeats slowly.

Jaskier looks at the stone gutter two stories above him, then begins to climb on the railing to try and reach it. He yelps when Vescailla grabs the back of his collar and pulls him down. He looks at her. She's pinching the area between her eyes with her free hand.

“ _Use_ your _wings_.”

He winces. “Right.”

“This will be your first real challenge." Vescailla lets him go and crosses her arms. "It sounds simple, but this will take a few days, as your wings are practically atrophied. You must eat large meals, Jaskier, sleep well and train in order to strengthen the muscles.” She pauses. “Take five more minutes, and then come to the dining hall. Lunch is ready.”

Vescailla stands opposite to him, perched elegantly on the sloping tile of the castle roof. The crows surround them, cackling away like a jeering audience. Jaskier narrows his eyes determinedly. He bends forward, holding his wings open and ready.

After two weeks of flapping around like a fledgling, he finally built up enough strength to lift himself to the roof. Now, the queen beckoned him. He was to practice gliding from one slope to the other. The only problem was the deep chasm that stood between them. When he had helpfully brought this to the queen’s attention, she insisted that the quickest way to correct one’s mistakes was to forge an acute awareness of one’s own mortality.

He adjusts the belt around his burgundy tunic—part of an outfit that better suited his newer, more active lifestyle—digs his boot heels into the tile, and eyes the amount of roof he had before the drop-off: Twenty paces, give or take.

He waits for her signal and then runs as fast as he can, his speed creating lift beneath his wings. He begins to flap vigorously, keeping his eyes straight ahead, on Vescailla. He pushes off the edge of the gutter, launching himself over the sixty-foot wide chasm. Time seems to slow as he soars, keeping his wings level and outstretched as far as they would go. It works out well, until he begins to descend.

Vescailla shakes a fist. “Flap, damn it! _More!_ We’re not vultures, Jaskier!”

He flaps hard, focusing entirely on trying to keep himself afloat. But his forward momentum is gone. He hovers in place, flapping erratically, desperately. His breaths become increasingly labored as the seconds pass—he’s never kept himself aloft this long and was beginning to fear he didn’t have the stamina for it.

Vescailla beckons him with a wave, her voice suddenly and unexpectedly, soothing. “Alright. You’re alright. Don’t lose focus. Now, lean forward. Where your head goes, the rest of you will follow.”

The distance between himself and her side of the roof suddenly seemed impossibly wide. His heart pounds and his muscles scream for oxygen. The cold mountain air torrents in and out of his lungs so fast it stings his throat, which only tightens in protest.

_Oh gods—I can’t catch my breath and If I can’t breathe I won’t get enough oxygen and my limbs will become heavy and if my limbs become heavy I’ll drop like a stone onto the rocks and—_

His ears begin to ring. He shakes away the gorey imagery that flashes in his mind. The fear wants to pull his eyes down like a magnet. It takes everything in him not to give into it, knowing he’d lose his focus completely and it would all be over.

Wind hits, jostling him. Like a saving grace, his racing mind immedietly shifts to focus on the gust. He feels it push him to one side, and he extends his wings to catch it, almost instinctively. He is lifted upwards. Regains balance. Flaps some more.

Vescailla is still waving. He remembers her words and dips towards her, gliding, barely reaching the edge of the roof. He clings to the gutter and desperately tries to haul himself up. His boots scrape against the stone walls, unsuccessful in finding leverage on a window frame.

“Vescailla! H-Help!”

She’s beside him within a moment, wrapping her icy claws around his arms and lifting him over the top. He drops heavily onto the sun-warmed tile, panting like a dog.

“Oh gods, I thought I was done for.”

She stares at him, arms crossed and looking entirely unmoved. “Don’t be so dramatic. Get up and do it again.”

“Not only do you need to be adept at taking off, keeping yourself afloat and landing smoothly, you also need to be able to avoid impediments, namely trees.” Vescailla stands beside Jaskier as he eyes the menagerie of strange contraptions ahead of him suspiciously, his gut twisting at the scene. “This flying course is used by the faelings during their school hours,” she continues. “Allow me to demonstrate.”

She takes into the air immedietly, flying low. Jaskier watches, stunned, as she maneuvers expertly, weaving in and out of stationary logs, and flawlessly avoiding moving ones that swung randomly into the flight path.

Next is a set of hoops that grow progressively smaller and were set at different heights. She dives through each of them, folding her wings in tightly like a falcon. She just barely fits through the smallest ring, with just a couple of inches to spare. Jaskier can’t believe his eyes; She doesn’t even graze the edge.

Now, an open straight, ending in a vertical stone wall. She flaps, propelling herself forward with increasing speed, then shoots upwards at the last moment, her momentum carrying her all the way to the top without her needing to flap.

For a moment, she floats lifelessly above it, letting gravity catch up to her, before folding in her wings and spinning into a sharp dive down the other side. Seconds before hitting the ground, her wings extend suddenly, redirecting herself away. She shoots across an open field with new impetus.

Her wake sends wooden pinwheels lining both sides of the path, crafted and painted by what had to be the school children, spinning violently. They squeak under the stress. One of them falls over. Vescailla lands gracefully at the finish line and then looks back at Jaskier, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder. He swallows.

“Your turn."

Jaskier sits cross-legged in the middle of the woods, eyes closed. He tries to do as he was instructed, reaching out his mind to the local wildlife, waiting for a familiar or two to offer their services. But the only ones who answered were the crows.

Jaskier refused to talk to the crows.

“We’re going to be here for days unless you get over your _absurd_ bias,” Vescailla snaps, after a while. She’s sitting facing him a few feet away. He can feel her judgmental eyes bearing down on him. “The corvids are our eyes and ears. They have been our faithful companions for millennia. They are the first to warn us of danger, and to come to our aid in battle. But you reject them. Why?”

He doesn’t have a straight answer. As far back as he can remember, he associated them with death, and death was something he tried to avoid thinking about, except for in a poetic sense. His ideals centered around love and beauty and friendship…and good wine. The corvids were none of those things. They were ugly, they ate rotting flesh, and their harsh voices grated against his ears.

Thus, three hours later, he continues to sit, repeatedly ignoring the tar-black birds, quietly wishing a lark, warbler or wren would approach him instead. The dainty little birds seemed to flock to the _sprites_. Ren always seemed to have a song sparrow or two flitting around nearby. He’s a bard; What better fitting a creature is there for him to forge a bond with? Why not him?

Perhaps it’s due to unfair bias.

Jaskier sighs. His stomach grumbles. He knows they aren’t leaving the glen until he made some progress. He feels the air shift when something flutters past him. Unable to help himself, he peeks open one eye and finds…a crow.

“A pox on it,” he grumbles under his breath. He reaches out with his mind, commanding the bird. _Alright, crow._ _Go, um…get me…a…dandelion?_

The bird cocks its head at him, then takes off in a flurry. Jaskier waits. And waits. Until he begins to think the bird forgot about him. But then:

“ _Oh._ Well done, Buttercup.”

Jaskier opens his eyes, confused about her tone, and gasps. The crow stands at his feet with a dandelion in its beak. It also brought friends—about a hundred of them. They’re perched in the trees, looking down at the bard keenly, each with one of the yellow weeds in its mouth.

“Crows are social birds,” says the queen, voice dripping with satisfaction. “Command one, and you command the _murder_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Crow](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K8B1x3Yupws) by [Thomas Newman](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCTW2KlvlqoOpQQLB78RKzuQ)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song:
> 
> [Strawberry Blond](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g685pAuKW34) by [Mitski](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC-GjYlrAWIHgwNDnbFHZ77g) (with some altered lyrics).

Jaskier rests against a bough of the largest ghost’s purse tree with his back propped against the trunk. He strums away at his lute. The branches cradle him, supporting his shoulders and back like giant hands; the balmy winds of early fall making them sway like a cradle. They squeak faintly against one another like old joints.

The bard admires the glossy fruits that hang from the limbs around him; milky white, oblong and semi-opaque. The sun shines hazily through the flesh, highlighting the content of their centers, which are dense and curled tightly into themselves, their details obscured by thick jelly. Jaskier finds himself fascinated by them and made a habit of coming here on his days off. He looks forward to checking up on the growth as the months go by.

Curiosity aside, he also came to the orchard to drink in some much-needed inspiration. It’s peaceful and secluded, scenic as a painting and downright poetic in many ways; A reminder of the precious, ephemeral beauty of life.

He’ll rest for hours in that very spot and write, watching idly over these faelings-to-be, and test his songs out on his captive audience, as he does now:

_I love everybody,  
Because I love you,  
When you stood up,  
Walked away, barefoot,  
And the grass where you lay,  
Left a bed in your shape,  
I looked over it,  
And I ached..._

_...Look at you, lily-white blond_

He hits the high notes easily, arching his back and craning his neck like a bird.

The polished surface of his lute glistens in the late-morning sun. It vibrates softly against him like a purring cat.

_We travel the country,  
as I’m playing to the wind,  
you talk of an enchantress;  
I give you a grin,  
Oh, all I ever wanted was a,  
Life in your shape,  
So I follow the dandelions,  
Follow the dandelions,  
Keep my eyes on the road,  
As I ache._

_Look at you, lily-white blond,  
Fields rolling on,  
I love it when you call my name,  
Can you hear—_

“Who’s this mysterious white-haired stranger?”

Jaskier yelps and nearly falls from the tree, his wings flapping clumsily. He braces himself against the wood and shoots a glare upwards, spotting Ren perched on a branch above him. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!” he says, and then takes a moment to process her question. 

_She doesn’t remember Geralt? I suppose she wasn’t paying him much attention._

Ren chuckles and swings down to his level. “You artistic types let your guard down too easily. Always caught up in your fantasies. What if a human came looking for firewood and spotted these ancient trees you seem so enamored with? They’d be halfway to felling one, oblivious to the existence of the invisible fruit, before you’d notice.” Jaskier makes a grumbling sound and returns to strumming. The sprite adds, “You do know if the tree dies, so does every child growing on it.”

“I _know_ ,” Jaskier groans, hand falling from the instrument. He makes a face at the image she conjures in his mind, then shakes it away. “Guarding this place is your job. I’m just trying to relax.”

She sits in front of his outstretched legs and swings her own over the branch, leaning back on her arms and looking out across the nursery. "Fair enough,” she says. “But remember, one day it _will_ be your job.” He looks at her, confused. She gives him an amused little smile. “Come on, what did you expect you’d be doing once your training was complete? As long as Vescailla’s still around to do the ruling, you’ll need to make yourself useful in this society some other way.”

Jaskier holds up his lute, like it should be obvious. She laughs again. “ _Relax,_ no one’s gonna keep you from your music. But, sprite or skrull, nearly _everyone_ who is of-age rotates serving on guard duty—whether they want to or not.” Jaskier twists his lips in displeasure. Ren waves a hand dismissively. “Ah, try not to worry about it. That won’t be for a few years. By then, I’m sure you’ll feel much more confident in your abilities.”

“My abilities aren’t what I’m worried about. I turned out to be a decent flyer, but the magic wielding part of my training? It’s destructive. I’m doing terribly at it, and I think it’s because my heart isn’t in it. I’m used to _creating_ things, not breaking them down. It feels unnatural, and Vescailla’s starting to become frustrated with me.”

“What about cloaking? That’s not destructive.”

“I just got the hang of it, I think.”

“And glamours?”

He shrugs defeatedly. “Tried asking about that a couple of times. She _insists_ on saving it for last.”

“Mmm. Right. She still doesn’t trust you fully,” Ren says, and then is silent for a moment. She looks out across the orchard, her optimistic expression falling into something more serious. “I understand where you’re coming from. We all care deeply about these wilds, but there’s a key difference in the way sprites and skrulls go about protecting it. Sprites generally try to forge a reverence for nature among the humans by cultivating places of beauty—flowering meadows, dappled groves, crystal clear streams—places that move their hearts, so that they want to preserve it.”

Jaskier nods. He can think of many places he’d stumbled across over the years like that.

Ren continues, “Skrulls tend to operate around fear. They scare humans into respecting nature by showing them its power. They have no issue killing those who disrespect the land—with hanging bodies by the wood’s edge to be picked apart by ravens as warnings. I’ll admit, it works wonders to discourage the raping of the land. But I’ve always felt there’s a better way. Something equally effective, but less brutal. That’s why _you_ give me hope, Jaskier.”

“Me?”

She looks him in the eyes, her expression grave. “When you become strong enough, you can challenge Vescailla for the alpha spot. She’s old. Someday, you’ll be able to overpower her. She’s training you to do exactly that, but she won’t give up her throne easily. You’ll have to truly want to be king in order to succeed.”

“And what if I _don’t_ want to?”

Ren is quiet for a moment, looking thoughtfully down at her swinging feet. Her voice is soft, and patient. “Figured you’d say something like that...I know there’s a part of you that still wants to go back to your old life. So, let’s say that’s what you choose to do. Vescailla will start over from scratch and find another human child to claim and train up—You wouldn’t be the first heir she’s lost. But…” She sits up, anxiously running her hands over her knees. “You would be hunted down by the skrulls—by Asper, even—because you’d be a threat. You’d know too much about us. Understand?”

He nods. Truth be told, there are only two things from his human past he truly misses: the freedom of wandering without the weight of responsibility, and Geralt.

If he really has to do this—has to stay here—then he's going to do it right. He's going to do it his way.

“Ren,” he says, somewhat timidly. “I’ve spotted you teaching the younger sprites how to fight with a staff. I know that’s mainly what you use in the sprite guard. I want to have that option—a _non-lethal_ one—to defend myself with. Would you consider teaching me?”

“You _want_ to learn the staff?” Ren grins, seemingly overcome with joy by his inquiry. “ _Of course_ I will.” She grabs the toe of his boot and shakes it playfully. “Oh, I _knew_ I was right to have faith in you. You’re not like Vescailla at all.”

Jaskier shrugs, deciding to take her word for it. “You mentioned there was another heir Vescailla lost?”

Ren brushes her hair out of her face and looks away. “Oh, um...” Jaskier sees her swallow. It’s a moment before she answers. “Her name was Cassia. She was tasked to guard the major nursery—this one—and did so for many years. The humans quickly caught on and warned each other of the unusually powerful leshen that stalked this part of the woods. They wisely stayed away. But one day, seemingly out of nowhere, she was struck down.”

“How?”

Ren looks at him again. Jaskier is taken aback by the emotion held in her eyes. It’s the first time he’s seen true hatred in them. “A witcher.”

Jaskier’s heart skips a beat. He doesn’t say another word.

“Let me see you go through your forms once more. Ready? Downward staff! Vertical parry! Shoulder staff! Good, good! Let’s see a downward whirlwind! Thrust! Stopping block! Withdrawl staff! Whirlwind parry! Backwards thrust! Keep it moving, Jaskier! Remember, no hesitation!”

Jaskier cycles through the practiced set of poses as Ren calls them out. He keeps his stance wide and stable, anchoring himself in his core, just like she’d taught him. He moves with precision, crying out with effort when he swings at a straw dummy. Hundreds of times he’d gone through this routine, from early morning until noon, faithfully returning to the guard commander week after week to train until he was slick with sweat and weak with hunger. The more destructive magic Vescailla taught him, the more determined he became to master the alternative. 

Ren smiles down at him roguishly. She jumps from her pedestal: a flat-topped, mossy boulder. “That’s a wrap for today. You’re doing great, _Buttercup_.”

Jaskier leans on his weapon and catches his breath. “I told you not to call me that.”

“Don’t be _ranunculus_. It’s cute.”

He fights to hide his smile. “You’re coming up with flower jokes now? I thought _I_ was supposed to be the bard.”

“Mmm. I’ll stop with the terrible jokes if you can beat me in a sparring match.”

He rolls his weight back to his feet and holds the staff guardedly over his arm, eyes narrowed. “Been waiting for you to ask.”

The sun is a good hour away from peeking over the mountains. Jaskier, perched in his favorite spot on the bough of the oldest ghost’s purse tree, isn’t strumming his lute—it had been left in his chambers in favor of his wooden staff—rather, he is watching. Sharp, bright blue eyes move calmly from the ground below, to the flowers above, and over across the orchard, scanning for movement. His ears listen for out-of-place sounds: Footsteps. Voices. The hissing of a sword or axe coming out of it’s sheath.

Today is a day off. Just like the day before that. Just like tomorrow will be. The queen retreated into her chambers in the recent days. This time of year, her sporing hormones made her reclusive and testier than normal. She kept to herself so she wouldn’t kill anybody—Jaskier included. By now, the prince knew when to make himself scarce around the castle. This is his fifth spring here, after all.

He chuckles quietly at the thought of what they’ll do once Vescailla resumes his lessons. What else is left that she could possibly teach him?

Jaskier could think of only one thing: a glamour—a _human_ one, he hopes. Teaching him how to disguise himself would be a great show of faith on Vescailla’s part.

His focus shifts upwards to the blood-red blooms of the tree he’s made into his personal watch tower. The petals sway gently in the cool morning air. He fills his lungs deeply, taking in their sharp, cinnamon-like scent. It pulls certain hazy recollections from the recesses of his mind. These familiar wisps he long ago reasoned must have only been a dream. He nonetheless finds himself hiding in them during times of uncertainty; visions of old leather and saddlebags, of clothes that smelled like woodsmoke and sweat, of strong arms and whiskers punctuated by storied little scars, of good wine and exciting tales told over a fire. Those brief, _precious_ snapshots seem so vivid to him, sometimes he swears they really happened.

The scent also reminds him of the glossy fruits that will soon grow on these ancient limbs. Jaskier's come to feel protective of this grove. It lost its leshen years ago, and has been patrolled by lesser guards ever since, because a leshy lost couldn’t easily be replaced. It is a rare, elite position among the skrulls, reserved for the most skilled warriors. The woods are vast. A leshen must be strong because they patrol their route alone, purposefully exposed to the human eye. Lower-ranking guards worked in invisible units, hidden on their side of the veil, and often combed the borders rather than the heart of the forest.

The leshen is for show, working primarily as a visual deterrent; a towering warning to trespassers. But for all its usefulness, the glamour is also heavy and limiting. The wearer must be adaptable, able to adjust their fighting technique to accommodate for slower movement and the inability to fly. Oftentimes, humans will take one look at a leshen and turn tail. But occasional scuffles with cocksure knights—or hired witchers—are inevitable.

Jaskier finds himself voluntarily stalking this nursery’s narrow deer trails alongside the other guards more and more lately, sometimes staying well into the night, his eyes searching for threats that were, thus far, only imagined. Sometimes, he wished some careless human _would_ come through the glen.

He would tear them apart.

He shakes the idea out of his head, ridding himself of the surge of squirming displeasure that always accompanied it. More and more of those intrusive thoughts forced themselves upon him lately. He wonders what crevice of himself they’re crawling out of. He wishes he could ask Ren about it, but shudders at the thought of her being privy to his darkest, most unsettling thoughts.

Ren has _faith_ in him. That faith is sometimes the only thing that keeps him going while Vescailla drills the fierceness into him.

_Ignore your boorish instincts. You’re better than that._

“You’re in a rut. And I don’t mean that figuratively.”

“ _And?_ ” Jaskier leans towards the queen, gesturing for her to go on and growing frustrated with her cattiness.

“Oh, it’s a good thing. It means your fae instincts have matured. Faeries are territorial creatures, you see, and you are a young and virile male—pumped full of hormones that are motivating you to pace endlessly around a territory you’ve laid claim to. In this case, the major nursery—don’t think I haven’t noticed, Buttercup.”

Jaskier puffs out his cheeks in a pout. _Those crows are all tattletales._

The queen ruffles his hair and says happily, even as he ducks out of her reach, “You’ve _finally_ left behind that human biological clock you’ve been running on. You know what this means, don’t you?”

The bard wrinkles his nose up at her while he smooths his hair back down. He doesn’t like where this conversation is going.

“It _means_ we can move on to your penultimate test of faeryhood. You can become a guardian, Jaskier. It will incorporate all the skills you’ve learned over the years.” Her chest swells with pride and she places a hand against it. “Except _I_ won’t have _my_ prodigy become any old guard. No. I’ve seen what you’re capable of, and I have bigger plans for you.” _No. Don’t you_ dare _say it—_ “You’re to take up the ancient, esteemed mantle of a _leshen_.” She sends him a dangerous, fangy grin.   
  
The word grates against his ear. Leshen. Monster. A nightmare told to children.

He knows he can’t refuse her.

“What does ‘becoming’ a leshen entail?” The words are forced out. He can feel his hands trembling, unable to stop thinking about the story Ren had told him about his predecessor. “Am I to ingest a series of gene-altering concoctions, participating in a painful, controversial process I may not survive?”

Vescailla leans away and stares at him, appearing appalled. “Where did you come up with _that_ nonsense?” She shakes her head. “No, Jaskier. You’re to learn _a glamour_. Yes. A glamour. Aren’t you thrilled?"

She waits, momentarily, for a response. Jaskier offers none. If anything, he is disappointed. He wants to learn how to make himself look _human_. Not like a hideous beast.

Vescailla goes on, _"_ The guise of the leshy is a unique glamour that draws from your mind, incorporating parts of the woodland you’re most attached to.” She paces slowly around him as she speaks. “It will act as a visual amalgamation of what you, Jaskier, imagine when you think of these wilds. That is why no two leshy look exactly alike. If I’ve trained you properly, you will be a terrifying sight to behold."

She pauses, ruffling his hair again. "Come along, Buttercup! We start now." She makes her way to the balcony just off the throne room and spreads her great wings. “And you'd best leave that embarrassment of a staff behind or I’ll _burn it to cinders._ ”


	8. Chapter 8

Geralt approaches a grove of huge trees deep within the woods, their trunks as wide as wagons are long. He warily eyes the crows gathered here. They weigh down the trees’ limbs. Watching. There must be close to one hundred. The witcher slips behind a nearby trunk, presses himself against the bark and stills himself, knowing the birds are the leshy’s eyes.

He hadn’t dealt with this flavor of beast in years and found it intriguing that his current contract had been posted by the same villagers as a different one he’d tackled. These woodlands are undoubtedly ancient, for the monsters to keep appearing here. That, or there’s something more than just trees here to be guarded, although he can’t begin to guess what.

He hears a soft rustling above him and glances upwards. A crow gives him a knowing stare. Moving slowly, so not to scare it, Geralt places a finger to his lips. _Keep quiet._ The crow tilts it's head curiously at him.

Then it caws.

 _Fuck._ He scowls up at it. From somewhere close by, another bird caws. Then, two more. Within seconds, the entire flock is making a racket.

Geralt peeks around the trunk just as the leshen rises up from the earth. Pieces of forest lift into the air and cobble together into a towering humanoid form. The fossilized skull of a giant elk, which Geralt knows is long extinct, takes the place of a head.

A dozen or so birds land on those gigantic moose-like antlers; the length of which, when put together, equals that of a horse. The creature cocks its head to the side, as if to listen to the birds. Then, it starts walking, lumbering like a troll through the grove. It tips its head from left to right—sluggishly, but with purpose—showing off its rack like a bull sizing up a rival male. Geralt’s seen this before. It’s trying to intimidate whatever threat the crows are crying about. But witchers are not easily intimidated. Geralt watches silently from his spot, hoping to catch the creature with its guard down. As the monster makes its rounds, it inevitably creeps closer to him.

Geralt notices something about this leshen seems _different_. In fact, it’s so startlingly odd that it’s enough to make him question the way he’d always thought of the monsters as nothing but soulless collections of moss, rotting wood and animal bones. First, it has a wooden staff strapped to its back. That in and of itself is perplexing, but there’s something even more bizarre about this one. There are _flowers_ here and there, peeking out from the cracks of the bark and nestled in the joints of its limbs: soft blue asters, prickly thistles, sunny coreopsis and, perched between the burr of the antler and the skull’s cheekbone…a single dandelion.

A rush of memories floods Geralt's mind; snippets of a journey long ago, when gentle songs followed him wherever he roamed...He shakes his head. _Focus, idiot, unless you’re looking to get yourself impaled_.

Leshys are slow-moving, but they’re also vicious and highly territorial. He can hear this one’s wooden limbs creak as it turns and stalks towards him—with a little too much purpose, he decides. Geralt removes his crossbow from his back and loads it. Then, he emerges from behind the tree, pointing it directly at the monster.

Then leshen stops, standing many yards away. Geralt remains poised, his finger alighting on the trigger, waiting for it to make its move. But it only stares at him with those dark, empty eye sockets.

_What’s it waiting for?_

The leshy takes a step back.

_What?_

Geralt waits patiently, if only out of professional curiosity. Eventually, the monster kneels and places its hands against the ground. Geralt ducks and rolls to dodge the mass of roots that erupts from the ground. When he comes to a standstill, he glances over at the bramble and realizes it hasn’t come anywhere _close_ to hitting him. His brow furrows. Leshens didn’t typically waste energy on mere warnings.

He re-aims the crossbow at the beast and starts side-stepping in a wide circle around it.

Again, the monster sends roots shooting from the ground.

Again, Geralt leaps out of the way.

Again, the leshen misses. Badly. When it tells the roots to move one more time, Geralt takes a deadly chance. He doesn’t move to avoid it. Just as he’d thought, the attack doesn’t even graze him.

_What the fuck?_

He takes a step towards the leshen.

The leshen steps back.

The witcher takes another three towards it.

The leshen steps back an equal distance. Then, it lurches forward and opens its toothy, fleshless jaws. The sound that escapes its gullet is long and multi-toned, simultaneously high and _thundering_ , like a Skellige warhorn crossed with an elk’s bugle. Geralt sways with it’s power, bracing himself against the vibrations that rattle his ribs.

The leshen slowly raises an arm and points a long finger at him. The murder of crows explodes into a flurry of inky feathers, rushing at Geralt. He is forced to shield his face from a torrent of wings and claws. Their rusty voices merge together into a chaotic cacophony of noise. When the birds finally disperse, Geralt looks back at where the leshen stood.

It’s gone.

The witcher turns his head quickly, scanning the area for movement, bewildered about how the ambling monster managed to move so fast. He feels a prickle up his spine and whips around; Too late. The leshen, right behind him, catches him in a writhing tangle of vines. Geralt drops his crossbow in surprise. He roars and struggles, sending out blasts of Igni to try and burn the plants away, to no avail. Enraged, he shoots the flames at the leshen. The monster shies away, but then calls up a wall of water from a nearby creek and soaks itself in it, temporarily making itself immune. Geralt swears out loud and throws Aard at the monster, who is sent stumbling back several feet.

The leshen straightens and extends its arm. More vines sprout, tying Geralt’s wrists and snaking between his fingers, binding them so they could no longer form signs. Breaths heavy with effort, the witcher is forced to wait for the monster’s next move. He doesn’t understand how this random leshen, what’s supposed to be a stupid, rage-filled beast, seemed to know his secrets.

The monster slowly returns to his side. Geralt snarls into the empty shadows that are its eyes. The leshen bends forward like it is examining him.

Trapped as he is, the witcher decides to survey the creature as well. He can see shallow channels that spread like leaf veins across the surface of the antlers, through which blood would have run in life. He can see the river-like seams of the boney plates that had long-ago fused into a cross shape over the bridge of the nose. He can see two holes in the bone that sat above the eyes—foramen—where nerves and arteries would’ve snaked through.

He notices the butterflies that dance around the creature, landing on the flowers, unafraid. His eyes follow the disheveled patches of moss, vividly green, that creep over its wooden shell; and then to the little insects that crawl among its stalks. Clusters of mushrooms, tiny, but blindingly orange, soften the creature's jagged outline. The leshen is an ecosystem in miniature. The closer he gets, the more life it contains. It is almost, dare he admit, beautiful. He'd never taken the time to truly see it.

The creature lifts a woody finger to Geralt’s face, its movements sedated, but deliberate. He winces as it runs a claw gently along his old scars. For a fraction of a second, he could swear he saw _eyes_ deep within the skull, unnaturally blue and wide with wonder.

Geralt’s gaze fixates once more on the dandelion perched on the side of its head. A strange thought crosses his mind.

_No..._

He snaps out of his appreciative daze when the creature suddenly bends to pick up the crossbow. Geralt holds his breath—

_There’s no way it knows how to use that, right?_

He never finds out. The leshen simply examines it curiously for a moment, and then walks away, weapon in tow. It leaves a great distance between itself and Geralt before the vines finally release him. Rather than going after it, the witcher allows it to retreat into the mists of the grove. His heart races; not from fear, but from some other powerful, mixture of emotions writhing around in his chest.

Geralt returns to the village empty handed and sweating from a strange, nameless type of anxiety. _You’ve lost it._ _There’s no_ fucking _way that thing was—_ the words repeat in his head for the hundredth time.

He heads straight for the inn, desperate for a drink. The hunter that posted the bounty finds him there.

“So? Where’s it’s head? I want to mount it above my hearth.”

“It got away.”

The hunter slams his fist on the table. Geralt glares at him. “What do you mean, it got away? Are you shittin’ me? That’s like losing track of an elemental! A veritable _slug_ , for gods’ sakes! You’re the sorriest excuse for a witcher I’ve ever met.”

“Have you met many?” Geralt smiles nastily.

The hunter kicks the leg of Geralt’s chair. “Useless fucking mutant. Needless to say, I won’t be tossing you a single copper.”

“Fine by me.” Geralt sips from his mug.

“Wh—Is this some kind of joke to you?” The villager changes his tone, apparently having realized Geralt is serious. “We haven’t been able to hunt ever since that thing showed up a few weeks ago. We’ll starve if this goes on. You’ll go back tomorrow and finish the job, won’t you?”


	9. Chapter 9

Jaskier is alerted to another intruder by the crows and springs up from his favorite bough. After yesterday’s surprise, he can’t wait to see Geralt’s face again. When the witcher appeared on the trail, he was convinced his eyes were deceiving him and had to catch the wolf to know for sure. Once he got a good look at that face without the danger of being harmed, a flood of memories came back to him.

Geralt is real. Those months of travel, monster-hunting adventure and bliss were _real_. Except…

_This time, I’m the monster._

It's a dissonant feeling. He wants _desperately_ to see the witcher again—just to see his face—but there are consequences to it. They can’t go on like this forever, with Geralt showing up in his territory and Jaskier having to scare him off without hurting him. But, what's he to do? Reveal his true self? It would be a horrendous misdemeanor for a faery. Besides, Geralt will still see a monster. The human Jaskier he knew is long gone.

No matter how many angles Jaskier looked at the predicament from, all paths lead to the same terrible realization: One of them is going to die in this orchard, and it isn’t going to be Geralt. Jaskier can easily match the witcher’s strength with his newfound power, or at the very least send his crows to call for backup guards. But he doesn’t have the heart. He knew it from the moment he recognized Geralt and wept behind that bony mask.

To meet with such a poetic end would be fitting, he decides. It's better than falling to his death, being kicked in the head by a horse or getting eaten by a griffin. This is a heartbreaking story worthy of a ballad.

Too bad he won’t be around to write it.

Jaskier opens his wings and drops, fluttering softly to the ground and stirring up a colorful flurry of dead leaves. He rises theatrically from his crouch, pulling the forest around him like a blanket. The leshen looms below the canopy of the fruit tree, waiting for the danger to make itself known. His heart flutters with anticipation, all at once full of love and dread. But when he sees it, he goes cold with terror.

It isn’t Geralt.

There are humans. Three of them. All touting crossbows. He recognizes them as the hunters from a nearby village. The one in front, his face contorted in rage at the sight of Jaskier’s monstrous guise, aims and shoots at him without hesitation. Jaskier side-steps. The bolt lands in the trunk of the tree behind him. A second man shoots. The bolt bounces off a rock, coming to a rest by Jaskier’s feet. The faery catches a glimpse of the pointed end and bristles with panic.

Iron.

Ren and Vescailla had both warned him about such dangers. Iron—and steel, by extension—is the one of few substances that could inexplicably cross the veil and pierce their flesh, meaning there’s nowhere to hide. All it took was a good hit or two for a faery to bleed out. Something about iron keeps the wound from clotting. No amount of applied pressure, bandaging or cauterization seems to help. The fae have spent many hundreds of years, ever since the humans took to forging the metal, studying ways to protect themselves from its threatening sheen, but have come up short.

Jaskier eyes the crossbow, knowing he needs to act fast. Geralt isn’t a threat to the nursery itself, only to him. But this villager and his neighbors certainly are. Winter will be here soon, and the faeries have known for years that these ancient trees, these precious cradles for faelings, have been scouted for firewood and building material.

Jaskier briefly considers the staff on his back—no, close combat isn’t the best option when facing bows. Cursing under his breath, he turns to the only choice he’s left with: He opens the mental floodgates, allowing his psyche to sink into his rut-fueled, protective instincts. The animalistic urges swarm across his body, bathing him in a righteous fury.

 _No one_ gets away with intruding on his territory, and _no one_ is going to hurt those faelings.

The skrull pitches forward and roars, lengthily, ominously, and desperately, so that it shakes the autumn leaves from the trees. The intruders stagger back a few feet, their eyes wide with surprise.

For a moment, it seems like Jaskier succeeds in scaring them off. But rather than turning tail, the first man loads his crossbow again. The third takes his first shot. Jaskier ducks. His eyes narrow behind the ancient elk skull.

 _Fine_.

He calls on his crows. They descend on the men, clawing at their faces and pecking at their eyes. The hunters disperse, breaking up the murder into smaller groups. The first hunter draws his sword and swipes wildly at the birds. The other two follow his lead. They strike a number of the birds down. More and more of the animals drop. Jaskier’s heart aches—Those are his _friends_. Unable to stand the sight, he calls them off. 

The men, hair ruffled and covered in scrapes, are back on the bard in an instant, more furious than before. Jaskier throws his palms against the ground. Roots burst through the soil around the men. Unlike with Geralt, this time they’re aimed to kill. He succeeds in running a thick, woody root through one of the men’s chests. The plant wriggles up his throat and bursts out of his mouth. The hunter, unable to even make a sound, contorts painfully before going limp.

Jaskier forces down the wave of sympathy that rocks him and swallows rising nausea. They probably have families. The other two men manage to avoid the attack. One runs at Jaskier brandishing his sword. The other hangs back to reload his crossbow. Jaskier, forced to prioritize, sends another torrent of roots at the swordsman first, who avoids the initial deadly strike, but still trips over them. His chin slams against the ground and the weapon flies out of his hands.

The archer shoots. The bolt hits one of the broad antlers of the faery’s glamour and knocks his head back with force. He staggers backwards. It gives the swordsman the time to grab his blade and stand. Jaskier quickly regains balance, but must immediately leap out of the way of the swinging blade. In the same motion, he removes his staff from his back. The hunter swipes again, downwards this time. The faery blocks it, catching his weight on his back leg, holding the wood vertically and thrusting upwards.

The swordsman roars. He pulls back and stabs at the monster’s torso. Jaskier swings the staff vertically, deflecting the metal to the side. The hunter uses the momentum to pirouette, coming in high from the opposite side. Jaskier side-steps, slides his grip towards the base of the staff, and then swings upwards with great force, aiming for the end of the blade. The leverage is enough to knock the sword out of the man’s grip. The blade spins in the air and then clatters to the ground. Jaskier kicks it farther away.

Another bolt whistles by his ear. He stiffens, remembering the second hunter, and wastes no time throwing out his free hand to send more vines his way. The archer dodges and goes to load again.

Meanwhile, the swordsman scrambles for his weapon. Jaskier catches him out of the corner of his eye and sends roots out from underneath where the blade lay. The man, already throwing his weight towards it, skewers himself; The vines rip through his lungs. He gurgles, his shaking arm still reaching desperately for the grip. Jaskier turns away, leaving him to drown in his own blood.

_One more._

He sends another vicious tangle of roots at the archer, who pulls the crossbow trigger at the same time. It happens in a few seconds: The archer is overtaken by the plants and the bolt buries itself between the carapace of wooden plates, deep into the faery’s side.

Jaskier drops his staff in surprise and staggers backwards. It takes him a moment to realize what happened. 

_Fuck._

It feels just like he’d imagined being shot with a crossbow would feel. Except the iron tip feels like _fire_ , like it’s been pulled straight from a furnace, still glowing with the heat. The pain is enough to destroy Jaskier’s focus and shatter his glamour. The bits of forest that created his disguise fall around him.

Trembling, he falls hard against the ghost’s purse tree and slides ungracefully to the ground. He grits his teeth and yanks the bolt free of himself with a cry, _desperate_ for some kind of relief. It would make him bleed out faster, but he’s unable to stand the mind-numbing pain caused by iron inside of him. Panic rises. His breaths become labored. His hands press tightly against the puncture, trying to slow the bleeding. The warm red liquid seeps through his fingers like sap from a tree.

Well. This isn’t quite how he imagined going. But at least he defended the orchard. He did his job. Vescailla couldn’t ask for more.

He loses track of time laying there, as his skin grows paler and his eyelids become heavy. His breaths turn shallow, slow and shuddering. Sharp pain radiates through his body with every inhale. Blood soaks the earth below him, turning it dark.

He hears footsteps and weakly glances upwards, afraid it’s another angry villager, but the reality is worse.

It’s the witcher.

_No. No, no no…_

Not wanting to be seen for what he is, Jaskier tries to put his cloak of invisibility back up. It flickers around him like the panicked fluttering of a bird with a broken wing, but won’t stay. He doesn’t have the strength to push himself to the other side.

As the witcher closes in, Jaskier gives up. Gives up hiding. Gives up fighting. What’s the use? He’s been spotted.

Geralt slows to walk. He’s approaching with intent, now. Calmly, _coldly_ , Jaskier can only guess. Surely he came to finish his contract. Jaskier’s eyes hold onto the sorrow he feels, but his heart carries the weight of acceptance. He knows the roles they play—what has to happen here—and already decided he isn’t going to hold it against the old wolf.

Geralt kneels at his side. Jaskier’s passive gaze is level with the witcher’s neck and chest. He watches the gleaming medallion swing between them; an emblem of the guild’s promise to protect the world from monstrous things like himself.

The witcher removes a glove from one of his calloused hands and lifts it towards the bard’s face. Jaskier tenses and closes his eyes, bracing himself as one last, desperate pang of fear rolls over him. 

_Just make it quick. Please, be good to me…_

The hand does not wrap around his throat. It doesn’t sharply twist his neck or tear out his eyes. It sweeps across his hair, grazes his antlers, and moves down to cradle his cheek with a tenderness that leaves him stunned. 

A warm emotion washes over him, displacing the heavy stone of shame in his gut. He keeps his eyes closed—he’s so _deeply_ exhausted—even as tears well and spill over in them.

The witcher wipes them away with a thumb. “Hang on.”

Gods, he missed that burr.

The warmth of the Geralt’s hand leaves Jaskier’s face. He hears him rustling through his bags, and then the sound of something glassy shattering somewhere nearby. The witcher’s gentle hand pulls Jaskier’s own, trembling, off his bleeding side. The faery feels the shocking cold of water rush over the wound, followed swiftly by the heat of alcohol. He throws his head back against the rough bark of the tree, hissing with renewed pain. His fingernails dig into the ground.

A strong wind comes over them, followed by a shadow. Jaskier can make out the shift of light through his eyelids; red dancing with black.

Geralt’s voice is a few paces away from him now. It’s soft enough that he can’t quite make out the words. There’s a second voice, too; a female one.

The witcher returns to his side. “This is going to hurt.” He slips his hand into the bard’s. “Best keep your eyes closed.”

Jaskier’s fatigued mind doesn’t have time to process the words before a fiery pain, like the one of the iron bolt, but somehow so much _worse_ , envelops his side, concentrated on his wound. Jaskier yells in agony, squeezing Geralt’s hand until his knuckles go white.

It only lasts a few seconds, but when it’s over, he sinks down lifelessly against the bark, his strength depleted. A strong arm slides behind his shoulders, just underneath his wings, and another under his legs. He is lifted from the ground with a small grunt of effort. Only then, limp with exhaustion, does he allow himself to lose consciousness.


	10. Chapter 10

Jaskier's eyes flutter open. He winces; The sudden intrusion of light upon his pupils sends a sharp pain through his skull. He groans quietly as he waits for his vision to adjust, slowly taking in an eyeful of...oh. This isn’t the woods. The swaying canopy has been replaced with a rocky ceiling. Shadows play on the crags with a soft orange glow. He turns his head and sees Geralt sitting in front of a fire and casually chatting with a dragon. The absurdity of the scene takes a moment to catch up with Jaskier. He sits up quickly in surprise, and then falls back with a cry, his entire side wracked with a clawing pain. He grimaces against it. “Geralt—”

“Easy, now.” The witcher comes to sit beside him. He gently sweeps the bard’s hair out of his eyes. Jaskier looks up in wonder. He takes hold of Geralt’s arm, gripping it firmly, wanting to make sure he isn’t dreaming this—that he isn’t _dead_.

Here's the witcher. In the flesh. For the first time in...gods, he's lost track of the years.

"I'm sorry." It’s all Jaskier can think to say.

"For what?"

"For...me."

Geralt cocks an eyebrow. “Mhmm. How’re you feeling?”

 _I was shot with iron. By all accounts, I should be thoroughly dead..._ Jaskier lets Geralt go, moving his hand down to his side so he can explore the damage. Instead of a raw and angry wound, his fingers sweep lightly over soft, clean bandages. _How...how am I not..._ He struggles to recall the hazy events from before he passed out. Heat and the sickening smell of burnt flesh dominate his memory. “You...cauterized it? But...but that's not...”

Geralt smirks. “There’s nothing hotter than dragon fire.”

Jaskier looks over at the scaly beast, who sends him a silent nod of acknowledgment. “I take it she’s not holding us hostage, then?”

Geralt’s smile broadens. He slowly shakes his head. “You’re going to have a nasty scar from all of this.”

Scars are the least of Jaskier’s concerns. He runs a hand through his hair, and when his fingertips reach the gnarled surface of his horns, his stomach sinks. There they are. Plain as day for all the world to see. Yet, Geralt is, counterintuitively, ignoring them. Ignoring _everything._ Jaskier waits, expecting a comment about the bony growths. When he’s only given silence, he frowns, finding the non-reaction almost _insulting_. “Are we, um...not going to talk about it?" Geralt only shrugs. "Seriously?" The faery gestures at himself. “You _do_ see this, right?”

"Mmhm.”

“Well—how are you not _freaking out?_ ”

“I’m a witcher. Few fantastical creatures surprise me anymore.” A pause. “Do you _want_ to talk about it?”

“ _Yes_ , Geralt, I feel like this warrants an explanation,” Jaskier hisses.

“Alright.”

The faery waits for the witcher to go on. Receiving nothing more, he sighs. Guess he’ll have to start this _himself_. “ _So_ , as you can see, I’m not actually human. I’m a faery.”

“Right. And were you... _always_ nonhuman? Or is this the result of some sort of curse? Did you piss off the wrong forest spirit?”

Jaskier feels his cheeks warming. He sits up carefully, propping himself on his elbows. "I was _born_ this way. My true form was simply hidden under a human glamour. The illusion broke when I was pulled across the veil and into their world... _my_ world.”

Geralt leans towards him a little, examining the faery’s saturated, lapis-blue eyes with interest. "Did you know what you were, before you were kidnapped?”

“No.”

Geralt appears relieved, which Jaskier finds a little strange. The witcher strokes his chin, still scrutinizing the faery's face. “Mmmn. You seem upset,” he mutters. “I don’t think any less of you for being nonhuman, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Jaskier blinks. “You don’t?”

“No. Look at the company you’re in." Geralt gestures to the dragon. “You think either of us _chose_ to be this way? How could I hold that against you?” Jaskier's gaze drops to his bandages. He doesn't answer. “I was surprised, at first,” says Geralt. “Thought I was seeing things. But your true form makes perfect sense in retrospect. There was always something about you I couldn’t place. Some mysterious magic floating around you.” He fingers his medallion absentmindedly. “Truth is, I suspected you might not be human from the beginning.”

” _What?_ Why didn’t you say anything?”

”I assumed you were hiding yourself from me because...maybe you didn’t fully trust me.” Geralt shrugs again. “Still, we were happy, for the time being. I figured you would tell me eventually, and I didn’t want to start a conflict.”

“Well, I wasn't hiding on purpose," Jaskier says, turning his head away as he begins to feel guilty for something he didn't realize he’d done.

"I believe you." After a pause, Geralt adds, “By the way, I ran into the _strangest_ leshen yesterday.”

Jaskier becomes tense, made to feel like he's been caught committing a crime. He stares, anticipating an accusation. But Geralt offers nothing else other than a knowing glance. Jaskier fights to keep his voice even, mirroring the witcher's light tone. "That's funny. I ran into a strange witcher.”

"Uh huh." Geralt starts picking at his nails. 

More silence.

Jaskier bites his lip. The witcher is clever. There’s no use lying to him now. He sighs. " _Alright_. Leshens are just faeries wearing glamours."

"Hah!” Geralt looks at him with a wry smirk. “I knew it! And _you're_ a _..._?"

"I am...But, it’s no big deal! Just think of it as a...a big scarecrow. Mostly an intimidation tactic. For show. We only fight if we have to."

"Who would’ve thought? Goes to show witchers still have a lot to learn.”

"I'd rather you _un-learn_ it.”

Geralt waves his hand dismissively. “I won't tell anyone. I wouldn't put you in danger like that."

"I certainly hope not."

“Come on. It’s _me_. Have a little faith, Jaskier.”

The faery sets his jaw, displeased with having been exposed, but decides he can trust Geralt.

Another silence stretches between them. The witcher watches the fire by the mouth of the cave, seemingly content. Jaskier’s thoughts begin to wander, going over that day's events in his head. It all happened so fast. He hasn’t had time to process it. Now, in the stillness, his mind is quickly overwhelmed with images of blood and bodies. He tries to push the gruesome imagery away, but his anxious brain repeatedly circles back to them.

He grimaces. “I... _killed_ those men." It's almost a whisper.

"They came into your territory and attacked you. It was self defense."

"It still feels _wrong_."

Geralt rubs his face tiredly. “They were upset because I refused to go back and finish you off. So they decided to do it themselves. I warned them against it. Woke up the next morning to find them gone and ran after them. But I was too late."

"Sorry."

"Don't be. They didn't listen. I'm glad I at least got there in time to save you."

Jaskier frowns, unable to shake the guilt. "Isn't helping _murderous_ _monsters_ against the witcher’s code?”

“Don’t get yourself worked up over technicalities. Lay down before you re-open your wound.”

“Answer me. Is it not?”

Geralt sighs. “Alright, you told me a secret, so I’ll let you in on one of mine: The witcher's code doesn’t exist. It’s just a convenient excuse we use to decline certain job offers.”

"You’re kidding.”

"I’m not. Besides, leshen disguises aside, you’re no monster.”

“Bollocks! Look.” The skrull opens his mouth, exposing his fangs in a little snarl. He sweeps his tongue over the sharp pair to make a point.

Geralt appears unimpressed. “Do you _want_ me to be upset about what happened? I could pace around, ruffle my hair and _moan_ in anguished disbelief if that’s what you’re into.”

“What?”

“Actually, you may be onto something. A forbidden relationship between a monster and a monster-slayer?” Geralt shuffles his shoulders teasingly. “How _scaldalous._ Imagine the intrigue, the suspense! Are you taking notes, bard? You should write a play.”

Jaskier doesn’t laugh. He jabs a finger in Geralt’s direction. “I’m just as much a monster as that griffin by Oxenfurt. I killed those people. You had every right to cut me down back there...Maybe you _should’ve_.”

The witcher’s eyes narrow. He makes a lazy, circular gesture with his hand. “It’s _really_ subtle, but I’m getting some self-hating vibes from you right now.”

“Oh! Your witcher senses have come through for us once again! Thank the gods!”

“Is that what’s been bothering you this whole time? That I didn’t break your neck when I’d found you? _Jaskier_ —”

“I feel like I’m _supposed_ to be dead. Like the gods willed it. You...broke the _rules_.”

”What rules? I just told you there are none.”

“You had your contract. What’s the difference between me and the last leshen you slayed? What right do _I_ have to be spared, but the rest didn’t?” Geralt doesn't answer. Jaskier adds, “Would you have finished off that faery you found bleeding to death in the woods, if you’d found it _wasn’t_ me?”

Geralt shrugs loosely. “I’ve never run into a faery before—in it’s true form, I mean. Not sure what I would’ve done. I try not to anguish about what-ifs. I like to live in the moment. Take things as they come. You know." Jaskier lets out a huff, finding the answer unsatisfactory. Geralt places a hand on the faery’s shoulder and gently pushes. “Would you lie down already? You need to rest.”

Jaskier stubbornly braces himself against the force, ignoring the pain that radiates across his side. He takes the witcher’s hand into his own and sits all the way up. “There’s no difference between myself and other leshens. _Admit it._ You’re biased."

Geralt rolls his eyes. “You’re an abominable beast, and I’m _sorely biased_. Happy?”

Jaskier twists his lips, unappreciative of the witcher’s sarcasm. He pulls Geralt’s hand down to his lap and holds it there, staring down at their tangle of fingers. He slowly runs his thumb along the lines of the witcher’s palm. Familiar lines. Something nameless and _aching_ begins to sink in, making his throat tighten and his chest swell with emotion.

Geralt leans in. “Are you _crying?_ ”

Jaskier leans away and wipes his eyes with his arm. He curls his wings around his front, hiding his face. “I _missed_ you, you _bastard,”_ he says with an indignant sniff.

He can hear a small snort of laughter from Geralt, who uses his free hand to pry one of the feathered limbs aside. “I missed you, too.”

Jaskier falls forward and wraps his arms around the witcher, who blurts out, “Watch your _wound—”_

“ _Shush_.” Jaskier rests his chin on Geralt’s shoulder. His hands glide up the witcher’s spine. “All that time across the veil, I assumed you’d _forgotten_ about me.”

“No...Never.”

Jaskier squeezes him tighter as his guilt compounds, spilling into his stomach and making it clench. Despite everything, Jaskier can’t say the same. Geralt had only remained in his mind as hazy fragments; little odds and ends he’d cobbled together into a single mass of nameless longing.

One more year, and the witcher might’ve drifted out of his consciousness altogether. If they had reunited in that grove under such circumstances—

Jaskier tremors at the thought, prompting Geralt to dig his fingers deeper into his skin and whisper, “You’re alright.”

“I’m not.” The bard slumps a little, burying his face in Geralt’s warm neck. He can feel his sensitive antlers poking slightly into the witcher’s skin. Something about it fills him with sadness, and he grimaces against it. “I’m _really_ not.”

_Jaskier!_

The harsh sound stirs him. He furrows his brow and groans softly where he lay, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

_Jaskier! Jaskier!_

His vision focuses, catching an eyeful of Geralt’s scar-covered back. The witcher's white hair glows, rimmed in a halo of morning light. It’s been days; Jaskier never tires of waking up to the sight.

“Where have you been, Buttercup?”

The familiar, dangerously sweet voice makes Jaskier prickle with terror and roll around. He scowls when he realizes it’s one of his crows mimicking Vescailla. “Oh, curse your plowing parroting!” He waves the bird away. The crow flutters into the air, then drops right back to where it was. Jaskier closes his eyes and rolls back over. He can hear the bird’s claws click on the stone as it walks right up to him, and then the sound of flapping. Its talons dig lightly into his shoulder. Jaskier hunches into himself. _Ugh...What do you want from me?_

 _Where have you been?_ says the crow.

_Here. Now go away. Leave me in peace._

_What about the orchard?_

Jaskier opens his eyes again. The nursery! He was the only one patrolling the area and he never sent a report to anyone about his injuries, or told anyone about his subsequent absence. Worse, the faelings will be ready for harvest any day now.

“A pox on it!” He sits up. The bird on his shoulder flaps to keep balanced.

Geralt groans as he rolls around to face him. “What, in the gods’ names, are you barking about?”

“I have to go back,” Jaskier says and looks out the entrance of the cave.

“What? Where?”

“The grove, where you found me.” He spins back around. The witcher makes a confused sound. Jaskier stands, sending the crow flapping again. “I have to _protect_ them. But I don't want to leave you again. M-Maybe I could bring you with me, across the veil!”

Geralt sits up slowly. His eyes flip between the bird and the faery. “Slow down, bard. Protect who?”

“The _babies_ , Geralt!”

“There are babies?”

“You think I was stomping around the orchard as a leshy just to make an ass of myself?”

The witcher rubs his chin. “So there _is_ something more than just trees hidden there.”

“It’s one of the faerys’ nurseries, where our young are grown. I’m the _only_ thing that stood between them and the rest of the world and I let myself lay about in a cave for a week!”

“You nearly bled out defending it. Give yourself a break.”

“No! This is unacceptable. I’m the worst leshy in the history of leshys.” He ruffles his hair.

“Well, it’s good to see you have your strength back.”

“I do, and I can’t dawdle here any longer. Will you come? The fae consider your kind to be their greatest enemy and I think—”

“Oh, that sounds _wonderful_ ,” Geralt interrupts. “This is how you repay me for saving your life? By offering to drag me into a world where everyone wishes my head on a pike?”

Jaskier’s hands drop to perch on his hips. “I _want_ to show them a real witcher. One who has honor. I want to prove that not every member of your kind roams around thoughtlessly drawing the blood of any creature someone points to while shouting ‘monster,’ and all for a measly bag of coin.” He kneels to level with Geralt and gives him a knowing look. “Besides, don’t tell me your professional curiosity isn’t _dying_ to know more about the fae.”

Geralt hums thoughtfully. He takes hold of the edge of one of Jaskier’s wings and pulls it slowly open like a curtain, his gilded gaze gliding over the dark feathers. Jaskier doesn't resist him. “I don’t know…” Geralt murmurs. “My curiosity’s already been pretty _thoroughly_ satisfied.”

“ _Geralt_ ,” Jaskier whines. He can feel his cheeks growing warm and quickly changes the subject by curtly extending a hand. “Enough of this. I’m heading out. You coming, or do I need to beg?”

The witcher frowns at his hand for a moment, but then takes hold of it with a grumble. Jaskier stands, lifting Geralt with him. As he does, he pulls himself and the witcher across the veil. “There we are.” Jaskier nods and gives Geralt’s hand a little squeeze. He turns on his heel and starts moving towards the mouth of the cave, pulling the witcher along. “Let’s untie Roach, and then you’ll follow me closely. Mmm...I suppose I’ll have to pull her through, too. Don’t think she’d be fond of something invisible trying to climb onto her back.”

Geralt looks around, then down at their hands. “Was that it? I’m in the fae world now?”

“Were you expecting a light show?” Jaskier looks back at him wryly. “They’re the same world; just two dimensions that are _ever-so-slightly_ out of sync with one another. At most you might notice a smattering of unusual plant life.”

He scoops up his staff from the floor with his free hand and keeps walking, but then freezes, remembering something. “Um…do you have a shirt I can wear? One you wouldn’t mind cutting a pair of holes into?”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song:  
> [The Cat and the Moon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e-vXLwCHONY) from The Lord of The Rings Musical

The faery flies, weaving between trees like a swallow. Roach canters down the wooded hillside after him. It doesn’t take Jaskier long to realize the horse is having trouble keeping up. Anxious as he is to check on the nursery, he forces himself to slow down, alighting on tree limbs when necessary, to wait for them to catch up.

When they finally close in on the familiar grove, Jaskier lands at its edge. Geralt sidles Roach up beside him and looks up. “These are your trees, right? Gods, I’ve never seen such enormous fruits...Can’t believe these were here the _whole time_.”

Jaskier hums, acknowledging, and puts a hand on Roach’s bridle. He pulls, carefully leading her past the corpses of the villagers, all the while his flock takes turns picking at the remains.

 _W_ _e’ve been watching for threats in your absence, brother,_ one of the crows says to him.

_Thank you..._

Jaskier briefly closes his eyes, overtaken by a wave of nausea. Still, he’s relived _something’s_ been watching over the nursery in his stead. He tries not to look at the bodies or pay mind to the smell of death that now soiled the land. Instead, he lends his attention to his favorite tree. He lets the horse go so he can run his fingers around the crossbow bolt still lodged in the trunk.

“The wound is still weeping,” he says, mostly to himself, as he examines the trails of amber-colored sap that run down the bark, leaving ugly black stains behind. It smells slightly fermented.

His eyes rise to the faelings suspended above. What he sees makes his stomach churn. The flesh of the fruit is off-color, having taken on a brownish hue.

“ _That_ looks infected.” Geralt catches up. The bard, feeling a little faint, braces himself on the side of the saddle.

“It’s...guhh, i-it’s some kind of rot.” He slides his free hand across his face, covering his eyes until he stops seeing spots. “ _Oh_ …” he takes a deep breath. “ _Hhokay_ …I need to tell someone before this gets any worse. Maybe there’s still something that can be done.”

“Lead on,” says Geralt gently.

Jaskier keeps walking, head bowed with the weight of guilt. They don’t make it more than twenty paces before something leaps out of one of the nearby trees and runs towards them, yelling in a flurry of spinning wood and feathers.

Roach rears and whinnies harshly. Jaskier is forced to leap out of the way of her flailing hooves. Geralt struggles to remain in the saddle. As soon as Roach’s hooves return to the ground, the end of a staff is jammed up under the witcher’s chin. Geralt wisely raises his hands rather than reaching for a sword.

“Let Jaskier go peacefully and I’ll _think about_ sparing your life,” Ren’s voice drips with poison. Her wings are spread menacingly. Dead leaves swirl around her body just like the flower petals had years before.

“Whoa! Take it easy!” Jaskier waves frantically from behind her.

Ren’s narrowed eyes never leave the witcher’s. “You alright, Jas? Your murder told me this morning that you’d been injured and went missing. I came looking for you.” She prods Geralt’s jawline. The man grits his teeth, clearly struggling to maintain his composure. “This _witcher_ is holding you for ransom, isn’t he? What’re you planning, mutant scum? You gonna try to bargain for his life? I’ll _die_ before that happens!”

“ _Please_ lower the staff, Ren, he’s not your enemy,” the bard sighs. He puts a hand lightly on her shoulder. The bottom of the staff instantly swings to dig into his collarbone instead. He stumbles back and lifts his hands innocently.

“Why are you _defending_ him?” Ren says.

“Friend of yours?” Geralt asks Jaskier flatly, indicating the sprite with a small nod. Ren swings the staff a second time, returning the end of it to Geralt’s throat.

“Nobody make any sudden moves,” she growls. Her eyes flip between the two of them.

“Interesting," Geralt continues casually. "Her horns are different than yours."

“My—? Can he _see_ me?” Ren’s voice becomes shrill. Jaskier smiles guiltily. The leaf litter forming a loose shell around the woman drops lifelessly around her feet. Her wing feathers bristle and her fangs show in a snarl. “ _Jaskier,_ you’d better explain what’s going on. _Right_ _now_.”

“Ah, w-well,” he begins, but startles when something loudly, _wetly_ , drops to the ground behind him. He turns to find one of the rotting fruits smeared across the dirt. “Oh, that’s not normal,” he says, eyes wide. He backs away when something begins to move inside of it.

From the off-color flesh emerges a toddler-sized creature. It shakes off the fermenting jelly like a wet dog. It's covered entirely in short brown fur and stands crouched on all-fours. Two batlike wings, shriveled and wet like a freshly hatched butterfly’s, sprout from it’s back. It turns its triangular head towards them, sporting large pointed ears and an upturned, leaf-shaped nose.

Jaskier swallows dryly. “That’s _definitely_ not normal.”

Two more fruits fall. Jaskier looks upwards. The rest are swinging violently from the branches as their insides squirm. The creatures, one pair erupting from fruits on the ground, and the rest dropping from the tree, immediately target Ren. They surround her. She backs away, holding her staff out as far as it will reach, looking unsure of which creature to focus on. Geralt uses one hand to pull on the reins to back his horse away, and waves the other to coat Roach's mind with Axii to keep her calm. In a synchronized move, the creatures open their maws, exposing needle-like teeth. They screech. Jaskier curls into himself, wincing and plugging his ears.

Ren staggers backwards, grimacing in pain, with her free hand against her own ear. She yells over the noise. “ _Run!_ I think these are—!” Her words trail off, ending in a moan.

The screeching stops. Jaskier uncurls and looks at Ren worriedly. She’s bent over, holding her head and wavering dizzily.

“Plumards,” Geralt finishes with a growl. He leaps from Roach’s back, swiftly pulling his silver sword from its sheath. He swings at one, but the move is blocked by Ren’s wooden staff. They lock eyes. Her irises are glowing a ghostly green. Geralt spins and aims for another plumard; Blocked again.

Jaskier watches with growing confusion. “Ren?—whoa, shit!” The plumards lunge at him. He takes into the air, hovering just out of their reach. They growl and jump and flap, chomping at his boots. Their small, wet wings aren’t able to hold them aloft. Jaskier winces at the sound of teeth clacking against teeth.

A loud curse from Geralt draws the bard's attention back over at him. The witcher bursts into action, swiftly blocking an array of blows from Ren’s staff. She’s coming at him viciously, forcing him away from the creatures. He’s struggling to keep up. Jaskier knows Ren has more leverage—she's expertly breaking through Geralts blocks, overextending his wrists and landing hits on his body.

" _Ren!”_ Jaskier barks.

“She’s under a spell!” the witcher shouts. “It’s the fucking plumards! _Do something!_ ”

Cursing under his breath, the bard throws out his hands, capturing Ren in a cage of thick roots. She stumbles to a clumsy stop against the wood and grasps it tightly with her free hand, looking around herself, her face scrunched in a fangy snarl.

Geralt bends over, winded. No more than a moment passes before the plumards are ganging up on him. One leaps onto his back, scampering up to his neck, and another onto his arm. Both of them sink their teeth into his skin. The witcher roars and cuts a third down, which is coming for his thigh. Geralt grabs a fistful of loose skin on the plumard hanging off his neck and throws it onto the ground, stabbing it. The one on his arm screeches and leaps out of his reach at the last second.

“Let me out! Don’t hurt them! I’ll _kill_ you, witcher!” Ren yells, prying at the vines of the trap.

Jaskier's eyes are glued to the slain plumards. Perhaps it's his fae instincts, but the sight makes his heart writhe. He'd spent the last five months watching over them, guarding them, and putting his life on the line to make sure they survived. In a warped sense, these are still faelings, just ones that became corrupted somewhere during their development. It must have something to do with the tree’s iron-infected wound.

 _This isn’t fair,_ he thinks, watching Geralt continue to tear into the beastlings. _There has to be a way to settle this without them all dying._

His eyes return to Ren, who is still glaring at the witcher from within her floral confines. Jaskier is struck with a crazy idea.

“Geralt! Don’t kill them!”

“ _What?”_ Geralt glances at Jaskier, appearing afraid, like he thinks the creatures may have taken his mind, too. “They’re bloodthirsty monsters! Don’t give me that face. They’re _vampires_. They _literally_ want my blo—gahh, _fuck!_ " One of the plumards leaps onto his chest and bites his shoulder.

Jaskier chews on his lip, teetering on the edge of taking back his request. Is this worth the risk? Geralt's body is covered in little bleeding bite wounds.

“Oh, gods _—_ trust me, alright?” the faery pleads.

Geralt grabs another fistful of fur and throws the creature off of himself. He sends the bard a glare, but angrily sheathes his sword.

“Whatever you’re thinking, you’d better do it quick!” he says, and then books it away from the mother tree, trying to distance himself from the horde. But the plumards are fast. Geralt turns and throws Aard out of his fingers, sending some of the creatures roughly rolling away.

Jaskier summons his crows. They swarm around him in the air. _Listen up!_ _I need you to work together for me. Go to the palace and grab my lute off my bed. Use the window—it's open. Go now. Hurry!_

The murder flies off.

“ _Well?_ ” Geralt yells, still running. Sporadic curses continue to fall out of his mouth as the creatures nip at his heels.

“ _Working_ on it!”

The witcher skids to a stop and slams his palms into the dirt. Another blast of Aard shoots out in all directions, sending the plumards tumbling back.

Using the opening, Jaskier creates a dome of roots around Geralt, allowing enough room for him to stand, but with spaces too small for the creatures to fit into. Nevertheless, the plumards rebound quickly and climb all over it, grabbing at Geralt with their raccoon-like paws and poking their heads in to snap their jaws.

Geralt stands firmly in the center of the cage, breathless, glistening with sweat and eyeing the creatures nervously. “Okay, good start, but you’d better have more than that planned.”

“I do...Just hang on.” Jaskier tries not to let his nervousness show in his voice.

“When I get out of here I’m going to feed you _both_ to Vescailla’s ravens!” Ren yells, still clawing at her prison. Her eyes flash with the green glow.

Jaskier winces. _Merciful Melitele, I hope this works..._

The minutes pass agonizingly slowly. Jaskier drops to the ground, his wings exhausted from hovering. His eyes anxiously flip between Geralt and the sky. The plumards, now fewer than ten, remain thoroughly occupied with getting at the witcher.

Finally, the crows return, carrying the instrument by the strap with their combined strength. They drop it from high above the bard. Jaskier catches it. He doesn't waste a second, throwing the strap over his shoulders and positioning his fingers over the strings. He takes a deep breath and looks at the beastlings determinedly.

_Here goes nothing…_

His voice, loud and clear, rings out across the orchard:

 _There's an inn of old renown  
Where they brew a beer so brown  
Moon came rolling down the hill  
_ _One heaven's day night to drink his fill..._

He starts strumming. Geralt shoots him a look from between the gaps in the cage that says, _'Are you insane?'_ Jaskier answers with a quick, guilty smile, begging to be given a chance.

_…Called by the fiddle to the  
Middle of the muddle where the  
Cow with a caper sent the  
Small dog squealing  
Moon in a fuddle went to  
Huddle by the griddle but he  
Slipped in a puddle and the  
World went reeling_

_Downsides went up—hey!  
Outsides went wide  
As the fiddle  
Played a twiddle  
And the Moon slept till Sterrenday  
Upsides went west—hey!  
Broadsides went boom  
With a twiddle on the fiddle  
In the middle by the griddle  
And the Moon slept till Sterrenday_

Geralt shoves a plumard off the cage that had managed to wiggle its shoulders through. He sends Jaskier a glare, saying, “ _This_ is your plan?”

The bard ignores him, only becoming more animated as he gets closer. He has to do it _right—_ just like he’s been practicing.

Despite his nervousness, he makes sure to give the song the joyful pep it demands.

_Dish from off the dresser pranced  
Found a spoon and gaily danced  
Horses neighed and champed their bits  
For the bloodshot Moon had lost his wits…_

The tongue twisting lyrics roll easily off the bard’s experienced tongue. Settling himself nearby, he starts tapping a foot to give himself a backbeat.

Gradually, the monsters stop their attacks. Their ears twitch and they look over at Jaskier.

_…Gambol and totter till you're  
Hotter than a hatter and you  
Spin all akimbo  
Like a windmill flailing  
Whirl with a clatter till you  
Scatter every cotter and the  
Strings start a-pinging as the  
World goes sailing_

_Downsides go up—hey!  
Outsides go wide  
You can clatter  
With your platter  
But the Moon slept till Sterrenday  
Upsides go west—hey!  
Broadsides go boom  
With a batter and a clatter  
You can shatter every platter  
But the Moon slept till Sterrenday_

One by one, the plumards hop off of the cage and scuttle to Jaskier’s feet, staring up at him with wide, hypnotized eyes.

 _This is actually working!_ Jaskier's fear melts away at once. He begins to dance around the creatures, elated, with his fangs bared in an impish grin. The plumards’ heads bob, following his movements like kittens enamored with a toy. He spins on his heel and lets his body trail along behind the neck of his lute in a theatrical waltz.

Jaskier lowers the cage of roots around Geralt with a quick flick of his hand. The witcher stays right where he is with his palm slapped to his forehead in judgmental disbelief.

Fully aware of how odd a situation this is, Jaskier rolls with it, committing himself to twirling, dipping and swinging around his companion. He goes out of his way to be _taunting_ , like a bird caught up in the delight of its ridiculous springtime display.

 _Fi-fo-fiddle-diddle_ , _Fi-fo-fiddle-diddle!_

Jaskier crows a bunch of nonsense, trying his _damnedest_ to make the witcher laugh _._

_Hey-yey-yey-yey-oh-ho  
Hey-yey-yey-yey-oh-ho!  
Hey-hey-din-gen-do  
Hey-hey-din-geli-do!  
Hoo-rye-and-hott-a-cott-a ho  
Hoo-rye-and-hott-a-cott-a ho ho!  
Hott-a-cott-a-hotta-ko  
Hott-a-cott-a-ko-cott-a-ko-ho!_

_Fi-fo-fiddle-diddle-hi-ho  
Fi-fo-fiddle-diddle-hi-ho…_

Jaskier playfully bumps his hip against Geralt’s. The witcher’s teeth show in a poorly-muffled smile.

One of the plumards starts howling like a dog and is soon joined by the others. The resulting sound is _horribly_ off key. Jaskier laughs, temporarily losing his fingering on the strings, and then croons louder, so his voice rises above the creatures':

 _…_ _Hotta-cotta-hotta-cotta-hotta-cotta-hotta-cotta-hotta-cotta-hotta-cotta-mi-fo-foooooooo!_

“ _Oh_ , for the _love of_ —” Geralt grumbles, but he’s cut off by Jaskier’s fervent serenading.

_Downsides go up—hey!  
Outsides go wide  
With a twiddle on the fiddle  
In the middle by the griddle  
And the Moon slept till Sterrenday  
Upsides go west- hey!  
Broadsides go boom  
With a batter and a clatter  
You can shatter every platter  
But the Moon slept till Sterrenday—ay!_

Jaskier throws an arm over Geralt’s shoulder and hangs off of him like a drunkard. “Well! There you go!" he says breathlessly. "That could’ve gone worse, eh?” He licks his thumb and wipes a fleck of blood off Geralt’s cheek.

The witcher doesn’t speak for a long moment. It’s the first time Jaskier’s seen him look genuinely surprised.

“That...actually worked,” Geralt says. “Jaskier, _why_ did that work?”

The faery opens his mouth to answer, but then one of the plumards starts clawing its way up his leg like a koala. He stiffens, afraid the creature will bite him, but it simply perches awkwardly on his shoulder, whines and drags a long purple tongue across his cheek, leaving a trail of greenish slime behind. Jaskier winces, but acknowledges the affectionate intention and resists the urge to immediately pick it up and place it back on the ground, far away from his face.

“Oh, that’s—that's gross...Um, it’s a funny story, actually. I started to sing to the faelings while they were still developing. It began during my first year here. I would practice the same tune over and over until I got it perfect, as I would normally do by myself.

"Turns out— _get this_ —when they’re ripe, they come out remembering the song!" he says. "Now, this wasn’t _immediately_ apparent. But a few years down the road, once the faelings were old enough to talk, the school teachers came knocking on the castle doors, _furious_ , because the little ones had been grouping together during their play time and making up hand clapping games to a certain vulgar tavern song; All signs pointed to me.

“Of course, by then, three more generations of faelings had been born—all of whom I’d sung to during their _entire_ gestation period—so the teachers have been dealing with a new discourteous earworm every year. I thought it was _hilarious_ , so I decided I’d do it every year with a different song—choosing tunes that were a bit more age appropriate, going forward, obviously.”

“Nice trick.” Geralt chuckles. He slaps the bard on the back, knocking the plumard off balance. The monster leaps to the ground, hissing, all the while Jaskier beams at the witcher. There are fewer better feelings than making Geralt truly laugh. It was damned hard to do.

But the witcher’s amusement is short lived. He crosses his arms and looks over the plumards. “So, what do you want to do with them?”

“I don’t know…” Jaskier wilts. “Hadn’t thought that far ahead. I suppose we leave them here, for now.” He lifts a hand and catches the group in a root dome. The plumards growl and start clawing and biting at the bars and pacing around agitatedly. Jaskier starts quietly strumming the lute and they begin to quiet down again.

“You _do_ know they have to drink blood to survive, right?” says Geralt over the music. “Unless you keep finding animals to feed them, you’ll have to either kill them or set them loose to wreak havoc on the world, where they’ll suck dry a bunch of hapless villagers until some other witcher takes them out.”

Jaskier swings the instrument over his back and says, a little discouraged, “There has to be another option…”

The thought train makes him suddenly remember Ren. He looks to her; She’s still glaring at them from within her cage. Her hands grip the vines with white knuckles. Jaskier is relieved to see her eyes are back to their normal color, although they’re still full of a _fiery spite_ that gives him goosebumps. He sends her an apologetic smile. “ _Heyyy_.”

“Don’t ‘ _hey_ ’ me! Have I been put in time-out? The hell is this, Jas? I want answers!”

“I’m sorry! The plumards caught you in their magic, and you went a little crazy.” Jaskier runs over to her. “Listen, they’re calm now—and _please_ don’t hurt Geralt. I _promise_ he comes in peace—”

“No, _you_ listen! I can’t believe you brought a _witcher across the veil_ andthenled him directly to a nursery full of _fae infants!”_ she shrieks. “Has leshyhood caused you to lose _every single one_ of your marbles? Let me out this _instant!_ I’ll kick his mutant ass and _then_ I’ll kick _yours!_ ”

“She’s charming,” Geralt mutters.

Jaskier wags a finger at Ren. “Not unless you promise not to touch Geralt. He’s a good person! If you want proof, take a look.” He lifts his too-baggy white linen shirt and gestures to his bandages. “He saved my life after I got a wound from iron.”

“You mean he—he stopped the bleeding?” Ren’s eyes flick over to the witcher. She cocks an eyebrow. “How in _the world…?_ ”

Geralt shrugs half-heartedly. “I had some help.”

“Dragon fire,” says Jaskier proudly. “Isn’t that clever? Who would’ve thought?”

“You’re on good enough terms with a dragon that they’d do you a favor like that?” Ren asks Geralt. She seems to soften as she searches the witcher’s eyes. She sighs. “Fine. Let me out. I won’t go after him.”

Jaskier wiggles his fingers perfunctorily. The vines retreat into the soil. Ren grabs her staff from the ground and stomps right up to Geralt, who narrows his eyes down at her. She shoves an accusatory finger in his face. “Alright, _Geralt_ , it seems you have valuable information. You will come with me, _peacefully,_ to Asper’s, and you will tell him everything you know.”

The witcher squares up to her. “Who’s this Asper?”

“He’s their king,” says Jaskier. “Or, their father? Um…it’s a bit complicated.” He looks between the sprite and the witcher worriedly. “Hey, please don’t kill each other. You promised!”

Ren twists her lips and wrinkles her nose. She steps back, but doesn’t take her glare from Geralt. “Got my eye on you,” she hisses, then prods his hip with her staff. “Now _move it_. Lead the way, Jas. We’ll let Asper decide how to deal with you two.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Fool](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xKF4WZay0CU) by [Ryn Weaver](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCb_Oo910TXsgFeJILhCQFBQ)


	12. Chapter 12

“This _witcher_ has a dragon at his disposal? How is that possible?” says Asper.

“I was just calling in a favor,” Geralt calls from the other side of the throne room. He leans against the grip of two sprite guards holding him. “It was a _one time_ thing—”

“Silence!” 

Jaskier flinches, standing awkwardly between them. He’ll never get used to that earthquake of a voice. Asper fixes his attention on him.

”Can this dragon be summoned again or not?”

Jaskier glances back at the witcher. Geralt gives a barely perceptible shake of his head. The skrull turns back. “No, Your Majesty.”

Asper lifts his chin a little. He is silent for a moment, then says, “In that case, the witcher is useless to me. Time to address your _foolishness_ in bringing him across the veil. We’ll need to wipe his memory clean of the last few years, before anything that led to _any_ of this occurred, and put him back where he came from.”

“ _What?_ That’s a thing you can do?” Jaskier cries.

“It’s a thing the queen can do. Unless you’d prefer we kill him?”

“Absolutely not!” Jaskier spreads his wings, shielding Geralt from the king.

“Then it is decided. We’ll wipe his mind. Can someone please call for Vescailla?”

Despite having had little face-to-face interaction with Asper, Jaskier had always thought of the king as an open-minded person; one who leaned towards mercy and prioritized peace, thanks to Ren’s stories of sprite culture. Consequently, Asper’s swift action against the witcher caught him by surprise.

He watches the king nod meaningfully at a pair of guards by the entryway. The guards bow stiffly and exit. Jaskier worriedly watches after them, then turns back towards Asper.

“Your Majesty, can you please hear me out?” He throws out his arms in a pleading gesture. “I brought him here because I knew it was _safe_. I know Geralt and he’s no monster.”

“I don’t have the patience for your jokes today.”

“I’m _not_ —” Jaskier looks around confusedly as more guards begin to enter the room—a quite unnecessary number of them, he feels. Ren is among them, looking nervous. Her emerald eyes lock onto his, and Jaskier’s body begins to prickle with adrenaline, because if _she’s_ worried, then...

Was it worth putting Geralt in danger like this? In the name of what? Fulfilling some vague fantasy of an unlikely future where they lived together in the castle? Where everyone overlooked the witcher for what he is and what he’s done? _Instant_ acceptance, like in a children’s story?

_How could I let myself think that it would be so simple? You halfwit. Curse your poetic mind! Pox on your sentimental heart!_

The king’s avalanche of a voice rips Jaskier out of his thoughts. “To bring a witcher here spits on the graves of every leshen killed and puts us all at great risk. Your title of guardian should be stripped from you. You are not responsible enough to protect a nursery, and you are certainly unfit to _rule_ your species if _this_ is the type of reckless behavior you’re going to engage in.”

That hurt. Jaskier takes a shuddering inhale and looks at the ring of sprites surrounding them. Ren looks disappointed. Disappointed in _him_. Why? Had she not spent the last five years telling him that he was _different;_ that he could _change_ things? Well, here he is, attempting to do just that. And she’s got the nerve to be disappointed. Is he missing something? Is he doing it _wrong?_

It doesn't matter. He won’t lose Geralt a second time. Even if it means destroying everything he’s worked towards in this world.

He returns Ren’s look with one that is dark and selfish; one that warns she not betray him.

Asper, having noticed the silent exchange, looks uncomfortable. He adjusts his shimmering gold and red robe and clears his throat. “Has a sparrow been sent for the queen? The quicker we get this over with, the better.”

“You’re not doing _anything_ ,” Jaskier says. “Not until you give the witcher a fair chance to prove himself.”

Ren’s eyes become wide with surprise, while Asper’s narrow. “You _dare_ undermine my authority?” he asks.

“ _You_ dare test a _skrull prince?”_ Jaskier bites back. He keeps his inky curtain of a wingspan outstretched and tips his head lower, showing off the deadly points of his antlers in a macabre little bow.

Asper sputters in disbelief. “I’ve had enough of this. Ren?”

The guards draw their staffs before Ren has the chance to make an order.

“Stop!” Jasker shouts, his anger spiking. He throws out his hands and takes a couple of steps backwards, closer to Geralt. “Nobody move, or _—or I’ll—!_ ”

“ _Careful_ , Jaskier,” Geralt calmly says from behind. His voice is meant to be soothing, of that the skrull is certain. But he finds it has the opposite effect. That it only makes him want to protect the witcher more ferociously, out of a profound fear of _never_ hearing it again.

“ _Ren_ ,” Asper repeats.

Ren remains still, staring wide-eyed around the room while nervously chewing her lip. Her body is poised, on the cusp of taking action. But she doesn’t. A few of the guards take the king’s hint and take a step towards the prince, who ducks slightly, coiling himself like a spring. In that moment, Jaskier’s guardian instincts trigger, breaching the surface in the form of a powerful shout: “I said _stop!_ ” His eerie leshen voice overshadows his normal one and the reverberation causes the room to shake. Dust falls from the ceiling. Tiles pop off the walls. The flowering vines that spill in from the windows gain sudden vigor and crawl towards the group; Some crash against the back of Asper’s throne like a wave. The rest grow around the perimeter of the room until it’s covered in a wicked sea of color.

Jaskier can sense all of the roots of all of the trees for miles and is instantly able to visualize a map in his mind’s eye. He becomes acutely aware of the giant woven mass of life laying just beneath the castle, ready to snake into every available crack in the stone on his slightest whim. It occurs to the skrull, quite suddenly, and with a swell of mixed emotion, that he could bring down the building as easily as one might flick the base from a tower of cards. Judging by the terrified looks on the sprites’ faces, they know it, too.

Ren finally makes a move, gently lifting a hand to keep her guards from advancing further. “Your Majesty,” she says carefully. “I suggest you let the queen handle this one.” Her eyes remain set firmly on Jaskier. The look she’s giving him isn't fearful. It's pleading. His heart sinks. He can imagine her voice in his mind: _Don’t do this. Please, don’t make me—_

Jaskier reels in his emotions. The shaking ends.

As if on cue, Vescailla alights on the balcony outside of the throne room, tosses open the doors and steps inside, confidently tossing her long, dark wave of hair over her shoulder. “I came as soon as I noticed your little bird at my window...What’s going on here? Why do you have my son surrounded?” She looks Jaskier up and down disapprovingly. “And _what_ , dear heart, are you wearing?”

“A pox on his baggy shirt!” Asper steps towards Vescailla and throws a finger at Jaskier. His words drip with venom. “Your _son_ threatens to level my home unless we welcome this witcher into our lands.”

Vescailla’s sharp eyebrows arch, her eyes still locked onto the bard. “My _goodness_. You’ve got quite the anger streak. But such animalistic behavior is unbefitting of a prince. You must show some decorum, especially while gracing someone else’s court.” She glances at Geralt, narrows her eyes, and then looks back at Jaskier. His anger is dampened by the dread she instills in him. “Pulling a witcher—a fae hunter—across the veil is unheard of. Kindly tell me why you’d make such a frighteningly _irresponsible_ decision?”

“Because we’re—because _I_ —” Frustrated, Jaskier stamps his foot like a bull. “I _know_ him. Alright? He is not your enemy. All I want is a chance for you all to see that.”

“A strange proposal. But I will humor you, because I want to believe you wouldn’t knowingly endanger your people. Bring the witcher forward, please. I’d like to better see his face.”

Jaskier turns to the guards holding Geralt. “I’ll do it _._ Hand him over.”

The guards nervously look to Ren. She gives a nod after some thought. The guards back away to join the circle. Jaskier takes the witcher’s hand.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Geralt mutters. Jaskier says nothing, only gives his hand a squeeze, which he hopes is reassuring, as he turns back towards the queen.

Vescailla has since settled herself at Asper’s side. Her arms are crossed and she’s watching the poet with interest, perhaps due to his uncharacteristic show of authority. “Who is this witcher to you?” she asks. “Why do this for him at all?”

Jaskier isn’t sure how to respond—isn’t sure what Geralt would say if their roles were switched. It isn’t something they’d ever talked about; who they were to one another. He goes with the safest reply he can think of. “You overgeneralize his kind. No two witchers are the same. They’re trained in a certain school and created through the same methods, true, but they think for themselves once out in the world. So, when one witcher would kill a troll simply because he is asked to, another may not consider the troll to be a threat and _refuse_. The witcher I’ve brought before you is my...friend. I invited him here. Now that he knows the truth about leshens, he seeks a _peaceful_ relationship with the fae.”

Asper is listening with his arms crossed and an unimpressed grimace stubbornly plastered to his face. Silence falls over the room. Vescailla eventually elbows the king, and he says, bitterly, “How would you suggest we proceed? Because I will not consider yielding to this _ridiculous_ suggestion without substantial evidence to back up your claims. I’m sure there is plenty to the contrary. For example, how many leshens has your witcher slaughtered in his years?”

“That’s not fair,” Jaskier snaps.

Asper barks out a laugh. “Sure it is!”

“That was the _past_.”

“Oh, and you expect me to believe a veritable killing machine that’s been stripped of his emotions suddenly had a change of heart?”

The queen waves sharply for the two of them to be quiet. Then, she gently gestures to Geralt and says, “Why not let the witcher speak for himself?”

Asper puffs up his chest and stares at Geralt expectantly.

The witcher takes his time to answer. He shuffles his weight uncomfortably and seems to find sudden interest in his muddy boots. When he finally opens his mouth, his gravelly voice is as calm as ever.

“Four.”

Jaskier clenches his jaw and sighs inwardly, having _sincerely_ hoped that Geralt would’ve elected to lie in this instance.

The room begins to hum as the sprites talk amongst each other. Vescailla looks impressed— _livid_ , but impressed. 

“We should punish him right now for what he did to all the others,” Asper booms. “Tie him to a standing stone and let the corvids eat him alive!” Jaskier bristles. The castle tremors again. Asper ducks a little, his eyes rising nervously to the ceiling as more debris falls. “Vescailla, do something about your unruly heir! Tell him he’s being unreasonable!”

“Hypocrite,” Jaskier growls. Asper looks back at him. “You strut around preaching about taking the high road while we skrulls resort to violence and trickery to get our way. But it turns out, as much as you try to suppress it, you’re no better than us.”

Asper stands straight, clears his throat and adjusts his robe. His cheeks have flushed. “ _Well_ , our normal courtesies don’t extend to witchers. Especially ones as... _experienced_ as this one. We may strive for peace, but we’re neither passive nor stupid. This mutant is a clear and present threat to our kind. I’m withdrawing my offer to let him get away with just his memory wiped. It’s clear he’s been preying upon us for decades— _far_ beyond the window of time that Vescailla’s mind magic can clear out. It would be a pointless endeavor. He needs to be _neutralized_.”

“Dangerous words, considering what I’m capable of,” Jaskier says darkly. He holds Geralt’s hand tighter, expecting someone to try and steal him at any moment.

“ _Jaskier—_ ” Vescailla starts, but the prince interrupts.

“You threaten someone very important to me and expect me to just sit back and watch it happen? If you’re going to punish someone, punish _me_. It was my idea to bring him here.”

Silence. 

“Tempting as that is,” Asper says. “I will follow traditional sprite form and forgive your _insolence_ , since it’s obvious you’re not thinking clearly.”

Jaskier bares his fangs, and the king edges further behind Vescailla. The queen rolls her eyes at him. “Alright, Buttercup,” she says. Let’s pretend we set the witcher’s memories back a mere half-dozen years, as far as I can reach, and we let him go. Does this... _truce_ between us hinge on your presence? Tell me, if he were to forget who you are, what’s to keep him from coming right back here and _killing_ you _—_ or any other faery _—_ the next time somebody posts a leshen contract?”

“His actions would hinge on _ours._ After all, he didn’t harm me the first time.”

Asper says, “What _first time?_ Are you skimping on guard reports, too?”

“There was nothing to report because nothing came of it,” Jaskier bites. “Geralt accepted a leshen contract about a week ago. It _happened_ to be for my head—but Geralt didn’t know who I was under the disguise. He came fully prepared to kill, but when _I_ went against my training and elected to give him warnings rather than immediately attack, Geralt chose to walk away without sending a _single_ bolt or blade my way.”

Asper finally acknowledges the witcher. “Is this true?”

Geralt lowers his head respectfully. “Your Majesty, it’s as Jaskier said. My job is to stop actively harmful creatures.” He glances up, unusually meek. Asper continues to silently consider him, stroking his bearded chin. The witcher adds, “The villagers that posted the contract were frustrated because they didn’t have free reign of the forest—not because the leshen had actually _hurt_ anyone. I investigated and determined that the monster was not a threat, so long as its territory—a relatively small area—was respected. Conflict could be _easily_ avoided, so it went against my code to kill the leshen in question.” He pauses and clears his throat. “Unfortunately, the villagers wanted to use that specific area for firewood and hunting. The deer, foxes and rabbits fled there, knowing they’d be protected by the leshy. After I returned to the human settlement empty handed, the humans decided to take matters into their own hands.”

“ _That’s_ how I got shot,” Jaskier says, lifting his shirt to show off his bandages.

Vescailla tuts and leans toward him. "Dear heart, are you alright?"

"I'm fine, thanks to Geralt. But several of the local hunters ganged up on me. Geralt followed the scent of blood to the area and found me decloaked and half-dead. He could’ve easily finished me off. Instead, he saved my life. _”_

“And where does the dragon fit into all of this?” says Asper. “She successfully cauterized the wound, but how were you able to call for her aid?”

Geralt says, “The dragon felt she owed me for playing a part in saving her life many years ago. She gave me a charm to summon her at will as a gesture of gratitude, but it could only be used once. The charm needed to be shattered to activate. It’s been destroyed.”

“See? _This_ is why you should give Geralt a chance,” says Jaskier. “He has more friends which humans would call monsters than I can count on my fingers. He’s not some emotionless, money-hungry killer for hire. Those leshens he’d killed in the past were leaving their guard routes, going out of their way to antagonize the humans unnecessarily.”

It’s a moment before Vescailla speaks. “Hearing a witcher’s perspective has been valuable. You make a strong argument, Jaskier. So...” She taps her finger on her chin in thought. “ _If_ we decide to give your witcher a chance to live peacefully among us, what will _you_ offer us in return?”

“I won’t destroy the sprite castle.”

Asper loudly clears his throat. Vescailla smiles nastily, amused by the quip, and says, “While I admire your initiative, that’s not how we do things around here. We make deals, not threats—we’re not like those barbaric humans. Remember this, Jaskier, lest you’ll become a _tyrant_ rather than a king.” A pause, paired with a sympathetic look. “You must understand, despite all you’ve said, this witcher is still _a witcher._ Hispast, as much as he may have come to regret it, continues to hang over his head. That means we’re still taking a _risk_ on your behalf. It’s only fair you offer us collateral in the event your claims fall short.”

Jaskier’s stomach sinks, but he doesn’t argue. His eyes drift down to the tiled floor in thought. What can he put on the table that’s important to him? “Alright...I’ll offer up my lute.” He glances back up, expecting the deal to be done. Asper only frowns.

“Do you _mean_ to insult me? We’re talking about gambling lives and all you can muster is a fancy instrument?”

Jaskier isn’t sure how to respond to the king—his lute has _always_ been his most important possession. 

Vescailla says, “Well, what’s more precious to a bard than his instrument?” Jaskier looks at her, wary of her tone. She’s grinning, both fangs showing. Every crevice of himself fills with dread. “Their _voice_. Isn’t that right, little lark? I could make you quieter than a dormouse with some air magic.”

Jaskier’s free hand lifts to graze the base of his throat protectively. He finds the suggestion leaves him...speechless. Asper’s eyebrows raise. He says, “Well, judging by the look on the prince’s face, I’d say that would be more of a fair wager.”

“Don’t,” Geralt whispers. Jaskier looks over his shoulder. His eyes widen with question. Geralt’s are narrowed determinedly. “I can’t let you risk that.”

“What’s your decision?” Vescailla calls.

Jaskier turns to face the witcher. He glances around, wincing, as he feels harried by the number of expectant eyes set on him. He steps closer to Geralt, deciding to look into his golden eyes instead, shrinking his world to encompass just the two of them. Just for a moment.

“Never in a thousand moons would I have guessed I’d be willing to put my voice on the line for anything, or anyone,” he says softly, so only Geralt can hear him.

“You don’t have to.”

Jaskier takes Geralt’s hand. “Listen. This life...this thing we have...It’s _important_ to me. I meant what I said. I trust you.”

“You sure you want to do this?”

Jaskier leans closer. "I know you. I _know_ you won't let me down. There’s just one last thing I need to be sure of.” He doesn’t wait for a response. He dips forward and kisses Geralt. A muffled, surprised hum escapes the witcher. The little sound fills the bard with doubt, sharp and sudden, like a bolt to the gut. He starts to pull away, his heart somersaulting inside of his ribs, simultaneously full of hope and a _terrible_ growing regret because what if— _what if he just—_

Geralt closes the gap, leaning into him with enough unexpected power to nearly knock Jaskier off balance. He’s caught by a hand that slides behind his head and tangles in his hair. The poet's body fills with warmth. It starts in his center, unfurls like a rose and radiates outwards until he feels like he’s glowing from within. His hands reach out, blindly grasping at the sword straps across Geralt’s chest, and he draws the witcher in greedily, wishing to _pour_ his light down his throat.

“Sweet mother of Gaia...” Ren drawls from somewhere nearby. Asper clears his throat loudly. Jaskier yanks himself away from Geralt and spins stiffly towards the three of them. His cheeks and ears are flushed with heat. But inside, he’s _soaring_.

“You are a _feral_ creature, even for a skrull,” the king says, looking disgusted.

Vescailla is covering her mouth with a hand, but her eyes betray laughter. Ren’s cheeks are as pink as Jaskier imagines his own are. The guards are glancing at their commander confusedly and muttering amongst themselves.

“Well?” Vescailla snorts through her fingers. Asper elbows her angrily.

Jaskier's words are firm. “It’s a deal.”

Vescailla folds her hands together in front of her, and takes a deep breath to gather herself. “Asper, what will you have this witcher do to prove himself worthy of your trust?”

The king speaks out of the side of his mouth. “Are you okay with what just happened?”

Vescailla crosses her arms and turns up her chin. “It matters not. As long as our nurseries exist, our species continue as they always have, regardless of who…or _what,_ we bed.”

“Ah, your majesties, if I may,” Ren meekly raises a hand. Asper indicates for her to continue. “Speaking of nurseries, the three of us came from the major one, and the trunk of the ancient mother tree has been pierced by an iron bolt during the same attack that nearly killed the prince a week prior.”

“What?” Vescailla straightens, her face becoming serious.

“The faelings turned to plumards—something I’ve only heard about in stories—and the wound continues to weep,” Ren says.

“Where are these plumards?” Asper asks.

“We caught them,” Jaskier says. “They’re in a cage of roots in the orchard. But if they don’t get blood soon they’ll starve.”

“Can’t they be healed? I swore I read something about a cure,” says Ren.

Asper and Vescailla look at each other briefly. Then, the queen says, “You speak of Morgould’s Solution, named after the fae alchemist who created it. If the salve is applied within the first twenty-four hours of birth, the faelings will still be malleable enough to be changed back. Most of the ingredients for this salve we keep dried in storage in copious amounts. However, one of the main proponents, a rare species of tillandsia called Arbheal, contains an active ingredient that _must_ be used fresh. Unfortunately, obtaining it has become a dangerous undertaking, because it grows only in a specific humid cave environment, the likes of which are frequently occupied by all manner of…beasts.” She pauses, her eyes widening as something seems to dawn on her. “Perhaps your witcher could retrieve some?”

Everyone looks at Geralt. He wilts. “Fine. I’ll get your plant.”

“Excellent! Commander, so long as it pleases the king, you will lead the witcher to the caves. Keep close watch on his behavior.”

Ren looks questioningly to Asper, who gives a curt nod.

“Now to seal the agreement. Go on.” Vescailla waves at the king dismissively. Asper grumbles and steps down from his dais. The guards part to allow him into the circle and he stops in front of Jaskier. He extends a hand, and the prince takes it, with some hesitation. A ring of light encircles their hands and disappears with a blinding flash. The queen comes to meet them and beckons Jaskier with a finger. “Here, Buttercup.”

The bard faces her and swallows dryly, unable to shake his nervousness despite his faith in Geralt. Vescailla kisses the tips of her middle and ring fingers on one hand and presses them to the base of his throat. They’re ice-cold. Jaskier suppresses the shiver that tries to skitter up his spine.

The queen announces, “If your witcher moves against any faery with the mere _intent_ to kill from now until the end of his life, the effect on your voice will be immediate. Understand?”

He’s momentarily afraid the words wouldn’t come out: “I do.”

“Then off you go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [m’lover](https://youtu.be/tJy2R31xpl8) by [Kishi Bashi](https://youtube.com/user/MrKishibashi)


	13. Chapter 13

“Why are you so quiet?” Jaskier asks Ren. He spurs his horse to catch up with the sprite’s gray mare.

“Trying not to get lost.” Her eyes remain straight ahead. She bounces along with her mare’s trotting. “This map Asper gave me is ancient and practically illegible.”

They travel up a meandering mountain trail. The wilderness around them is open; the air crisp and clean. Mosses, low-growing evergreens and boulders covered in lichens peek through a thin blanket of snow; punctuated every now and then by a shock of pine trees or aspens, where red squirrels, cheeks stuffed, chatter at them from above.

The fall wind is bitterly cold; the dead seed heads of grasses and alpine perennials dance with it. Jaskier shudders in his bright red jacket. The inside is lined with wool, but he still feels a chill in his bones. Ren isn’t helping.

Jaskier lines their horses’ snouts up. “You’re mad about something.”

“M’not.”

“You _are._ I can tell. Talk to me.”

The sprite wrinkles her nose and kicks her horse into a canter. Jaskier wilts and blows his bangs out of his face. His horse slows to a walk, as if having sensed its rider’s defeated slump. A moment later, Geralt fills the opening, pulling Roach alongside the bard’s chestnut horse.

“ _So_ ,” the witcher drawls.

“She hates me.”

“I think she’s just waiting for you to figure out how you fucked up,” says Geralt. Jaskier looks at the witcher, who smirks, swaying lazily with Roach’s stride and adds, “I know her type.”

“I don’t want to hear any more talk of enchantresses.”

Geralt reaches across and ruffles the bard’s hair, playfully sweeping his bangs back into his eyes. “Didn’t take you for the jealous type.”

Jaskier winces as the witcher’s fingers graze against his horns, sending chills down his spine and making his cheeks flush. He shoves Geralt’s hand away so he can fix his hair. He takes a moment to think, then sits up, feeling self-righteous. “Well, if _I_ fucked up back there, so did she! You saw the guards. She was _this close_ to _betraying_ me.”

“But she didn’t.”

“Only because _Vescailla_ showed up. “What would’ve happened if not for that?”

“I’d rather not think about it,” Geralt gruffs, then nods ahead. “Anyway, we’ve a job to do. Why don’t you go over there and make yourself useful rather than interrogating her?”

Jaskier looks. Ren is stopped in front of a rocky outcrop centered in a grove of tall pines. She stares up at it, then down at the map, and then up again. Sparrows are perched on her shoulders, horns and on her mare’s rump, chirping away. She nods at them, conversing.

Jaskier tenses at the thought of approaching a second time, but then shakes his head and digs his heels into his horse. _I’m not plowin’ afraid of her._ He sidles up to the sprite. The spooked sparrows fly away. Ren doesn’t acknowledge him, only stares at that stupid old parchment. He asks, “Is this the place?”

“The birds were saying there’s a cave here, but I’m not seeing it.”

“How can I help?”

“You can leave me alone so I can figure this out.”

Jaskier curls in his lips, holding back a biting complaint about how she was making things twice as difficult by refusing to work as a team.

When Geralt catches up, he immediately hops down from his saddle and kneels on the ground, eyeing it closely. “There are tracks here,” he says. “Something two toed on the front…three-toed on the back…large claws.”

“You sure were quick to spot those,” says Ren, still glaring at the map.

Geralt looks at her with his eyes narrowed. “Yeah. Having cat eyes will do that for you.”

“Bet that helps a lot when you’re hunting leshens.”

Jaskier sighs dramatically. “Can we not be snide with one another for five minutes? Perhaps _attempt_ to get along? I just want to get this mission over with.”

Geralt grumbles and then follows the tracks. He disappears into a clump of bushes by the rocks.

“Hey! Wait up! You’re not supposed to leave our sight!” Ren calls. She jumps off her horse, slings a leather bag over her shoulder and runs after him, slipping a little and sending pine needles flying.

Jaskier hears Geralt’s voice, distant and echoey, “Found the cave.”

Glad that they were making _some_ sort of progress, Jaskier sighs and slips from his horse’s back. He makes his way into the underbrush. The mouth of the cavern is dark, partially obscured by foliage, and is just large enough for a griffin to fit into. The cave declines sharply downwards, but appears to open up wider after the initial gap.

Geralt peers up at him from a rocky ledge below the mouth. Jaskier takes his outstretched hand and hops down to meet him, but his ankle rolls and he falls against his armored chest. The witcher curses, quickly grabs onto a protruding root with one arm, and hugs Jaskier tightly with the other. He waits until they’re both steady before loosening his grip.

“You alright?”

Jaskier, flushing pink, gives Geralt a small, affirming hum. When he glances up to gauge the witcher’s expression, he notices the new scratch across Geralt’s cheek, just below his eye. It’s small, but bleeding. The faery stiffens and steps away. “I’m sorry—Oh, gods, I still forget my antlers sometimes—I’m _so sorry_ —I-I’m just not used to being so…so _close_ to someone else, and having to keep track of where my antlers are...” He winces and wrings his hands, expecting a harsh remark or two. But Geralt looks more impressed than upset.

The witcher reaches out and curiously pokes a tine with his fingertip. Chills run up Jaskier’s spine again. “Damn, these can do some serious damage. They’re _way_ pointier than a deer’s. Do you go out of your way to sharpen them?”

The thought makes Jaskier shiver. He imagines it would feel similar to someone sawing at a nerve or yanking out a tooth. “That’s...just how they are...” He tuts. “I’m sorry, Geralt.”

“You don’t need to keep apologizing.”

“Do we need to knit little stab-proof caps for your rack or something?” Ren pipes up from a ledge just below them.

Jaskier frowns at her, unappreciative, but then pictures it in his mind and has second thoughts. Sure, it would look silly, but at least he wouldn’t accidentally sever someone’s artery. “You know, that’s not a half-bad idea.”

“Oh my gods, I was _joking_ ,” she laughs nastily as she hops further down. “You’d let yourself walk around looking like that? What happened to your attitude, oh _monstrous_ and _powerful_ leshy prin— _whoa, shit!_ ”

Ren flails, sending small stones clattering into the ravine and herself teetering over the edge. Jaskier drops to his knees and catches her sleeve, but his birdlike frame is easily pulled forward with her momentum and he starts to fall as well.

Geralt, a blessed anchor of muscle, grabs the end of an antler and, with a strained grunt, slowly heaves the wriggling faery chain back up.

“Ow, ow, _oww!_ ” Jaskier cringes. “ _Careful,_ Geralt. They’re sensitive— _aagh!_ ” Once he regains his balance and is let go, Jaskier rubs the back of his twisted neck. “Gonna feel _that_ tomorrow.”

“Guess that makes us even,” Geralt says. He uses his sleeve to wipe the blood off his cheekbone.

Jaskier smiles back, softer, and then leans his hands on his knees to peek over the ledge for Ren. The sprite has her back pressed flat against the rock wall, her chest heaving.

“You okay?” Jaskier asks. Ren is silent at first. Then, she starts giggling breathily. Jaskier looks up at Geralt—who has an eyebrow cocked—and then back down to her. “Uhm, what’s so funny?”

“Convenient time for both of us to forget we have wings.”

He straightens and twists his lips. “Oh, yeah...” He scratches his head.

“It’s too narrow in here to even extend your wings completely,” says the witcher, dryly. “Even if you could, that doesn’t mean you would’ve had time to correct yourself before an outcrop of stone burst your skull like a ripe melon.”

Jaskier grimaces in disgust. “ _Thank you_ , Geralt, for that vivid imagery.”

The witcher shrugs. “You two need to be more careful. It’s dark in here, and faeries aren’t known for their night vision.”

“Oh? Tell me, what _else_ are faeries known for in the human world, love?” Jaskier asks, remembering something that fills him with frustration. He puts his hands on his hips, leans back over the ledge and says. “I’d never heard of them before I was _kidnapped_ by one.”

“Wh—? I was just doing _my job_ ,” Ren says, her smile falling. “You’re _still_ bitter about that?”

“Am I not allowed to be? Because _you’re_ clearly bitter about something, but refuse to just plowin’ tell me what it is!”

“Children, _please_ ,” Geralt flicks the back of Jaskier’s head.

“ _Ow—!_ Geralt!”

The witcher stares back at the bard indifferently, but then he blinks as if having just realized something. He moves to lean over the ledge, asking Ren, “Hold on. That was _you_ at the camp?”

Ren looks confused, but then her eyes widen. “Are you saying that was _you_ he was traveling with way back then?” Her eyes flick to meet with Jaskier’s and narrow accusingly. “I assumed you’d just met Geralt after he saved you from the bolt. Have you actually been cuddling up to _a witcher_ this entire time, and you never _once_ thought to bring that up? Five plowing _years_ , and not a single passing mention?”

“ _Please,”_ Jaskier says, crossing his arms. “Cat eyes? Double swords? Wolf medallion? You really didn’t notice what he was?” 

”I was a little preoccupied with the _vagabond_ skrull I caught wandering around _decloaked,_ pretending to be _a human,_ and who was in the _wrong kingdom_ on top of it all!”

“Well—” He tuts; She’s got a point. “Who else would I have been singing about? Do you know many people with lily white hair?”

“You were singing about me?” says Geralt.

Jaskier feels his cheeks warm. He covers his face and lets out a frustrated groan.

“Old people maybe?” Ren’s pitch raises. “Look, I don’t know what you’re into!”

“She’s not _wrong._ ” The witcher shrugs. “I _am_ roughly a century old.”

“You’re not helping,” says Jaskier, peeking out from between his fingers. His fangs show in a snarl. His hands drop and he spins back towards Ren. “Look, I’m sorry if I wasn’t biting at the bit to tell you about how my travel companion also happened to be a _serial leshen killer_. Didn’t seem like an opportune time.”

“I guess it _never_ was!” Ren says. “That’s a huge thing to keep from me. I’m starting to feel like a fool for trusting you so blindly.”

“Why? For one little secret?”

“For _a lot_ of things, actually.” She begins digging through her bag.

Jaskier rolls his eyes and leans to the side dramatically. “Oh my _gods_ , can you just _tell me_ what I did _wrong?_ ”

“ _Let’s see_ ,” Ren begins, pulling a pair of torches out of the bag. “You insulted my species…” She haphazardly tosses one torch up to their ledge. It bounces against Jaskier’s shin; He scrambles to catch it. “…you implied that we were _weak,_ and you were a moment away from _demolishing_ my home.” She tosses up the second torch. Geralt picks it up off the ground and takes Jaskier’s as well. The bard’s snarl falls into a guilty frown as she goes on. “Not to mention that _look_ you gave me, like...like you were going to _hurt_ me.” She looks up at him like he’d stabbed her in the back. “What _was_ that? What’s happened to you?”

Silence.

“You know…" Ren adds, her voice softening. "I was afraid you’d become a clone of Vescailla. But after making threats like that against your own kind? Not even your queen goes that low.”

Geralt snaps his fingers, lighting the torches with Igni. Jaskier, in a daze, flinches against the flash of light and heat that explodes by his ear.

“Th-that’s...I was _afraid_ _,”_ he says. _“_ Wehad just found each other, Geralt and I, and I thought he would be ripped from my arms— _again._ You were going to send your guards after us, let Vescailla wipe me from Geralt’s memory and destroy _everything_.”

Ren’s eyes move back and forth from Geralt’s to his, wide and considering. Then, she looks down. “You acted like a selfish, reckless _asshole_ ,” she says through her teeth. But then she sighs, drags a hand down her face and rubs the bridge of her nose. “But...I can understand where that frustration is coming from. I’d be pretty fed up too, if someone like me kept separating you from what you love.” She crosses her arms and leans back against the stone wall, looking down into the ravine. “You must despise me for yanking you through to our side and getting you mixed up in our world.”

Jaskier takes the torches, then carefully slides down to her ledge. “That’s…not how I feel at all,” he grunts, his feet hitting the stone. “I’m glad I was able to learn the truth about myself. Besides, you’re my best friend. That’s why your imminent betrayal hurt so much…made me so _angry_.”

Ren rolls her eyes. “I didn’t _betray_ you _._ ”

“At the time, I believed you would.”

“ _How_ could you think that?”

”Because...I would, in your position. I _knew_ what a monster I was making of myself.” He’s silent as he considers all that had happened, and then says, “I _wanted_ to raze that castle; wanted to show off my strength so that everyone would agree to whatever I demanded…but I didn’t. And you know why? Because I kept hearing your voice in the back of my head.”

She looks at him.

Jaskier softens, adding, “I always hear your voice. My first inclination is always to blindly follow my heart. But my heart is an impulsive, selfish _bastard_. I never told you this, but you’ve kept me from making so many terrible choices. It’s meant a lot, you know, to have someone who believes in me like you always have.”

Ren looks away again, her cheeks pink in the light of the fire. “I didn’t realize my opinion was so important to you.”

“It is,” he says. “I know I’m not perfect. You make me want to be better.”

“I was about to lose my job over you.” She shakes her head. “You can be such a fool.”

“I know.”

“ _Never_ threaten Asper like that again.”

“I won’t…I’m sorry for scaring you.”

They’re silent. Ren’s posture becomes less guarded. She wipes her hair from her face. Jaskier looks down into the dark cavern, gut still heavy with guilt, and feeling as ugly and monstrous as ever. He wondered what that darkness had in store for them.

The guard commander’s voice pulls his gaze back up, “I would hug you, if we weren’t one misstep away from falling to our deaths.”

Jaskier allows himself a ghost of a smile. He hands her a torch. “I acknowledge the sentiment.”

“You two finished?” Geralt’s voice says from above. “Hate to interrupt this beautiful patching up of a friendship, but we’re on limited time here. Those plumards need that salve by tomorrow morning.”

Ren glances at Jaskier and gestures deeper into the cave. “After you.”


	14. Chapter 14

“So, what should we be looking for?” Jaskier asks as he clumsily navigates the darkness at the head of the group. He waves the torch left and right as his eyes scan for movement, illuminating the cave's stony teeth one-by-one. He ducks and weaves, trying to avoid knocking his antlers into them with mixed success. The feeling of bone scraping against stone makes him squirm.

Ren says, “Arbheal is found alongside glowworms, feeding off of a combination of their bio-luminescence and the minerals in the cave water.”

“And what’s a glowworm?”

“It’s a worm that glows, Jaskier,” Geralt brushes past him, uninhibited by the darkness thanks to the aid of one of his potions.

The skrull twists his lips and sticks close beside him. When the fire light illuminates another stalagmite erupting from the floor, right in the middle of their path, Jaskier startles, stumbles around it and grabs Geralt’s hand. The witcher mutters softly, something perhaps meant to be pacifying, and pulls him along. The tunnel gradually opens into a cavern. Jaskier looks up, flinching when water drips onto his face. Bats chitter from above. Daylight shines down through a smattering of little openings in the ceiling many meters overhead, but they accomplish next to nothing as far as illuminating the cavity down to the floor.

Ren is the last to emerge out of the tunnel. She puts a hand on the base of her spine and stretches backwards. “ _Oh,_ thank Gaia. All that crouching was _killing_ my back.” She extends her barn owl wings in a second stretch. They brush against Jaskier’s arm, warm and soft; a welcome contrast to the unyielding rock they’d been climbing through. “You two see anything glowwormy?”

Geralt is squinting at the ceiling, his sharp eyes taking in more detail than Jaskier could ever hope to. “I do…they’re faint, but I see little blueish lights above us.”

“Great. I’ll fly up there.” Ren crouches, but stops when Geralt holds an arm out in front of her.

“Hang on...Something smells off. Like sulfer.”

Jaskier takes a deep breath through his nose. All he smells is the petrichor-like scent of damp stone.

Geralt lets go of his hand and disappears briefly into the darkness beyond the reach of the torchlight. He returns carrying something long, ghostly white and semi-transparent. It's a huge piece of reptilian skin shed. He holds it closer to Jaskier, who winces and leans away.

“Yes, _yup_ , I see it! That’s, uh, that’s _lovely_.”

“Do you know what this is?” whispers Geralt. Jaskier shakes his head, eyes widening, a sinking feeling hitting the pit of his stomach. “Put the torches out."

Jaskier obediently grinds the fire into the dripping wet walls, killing it. Ren does the same, but not before taking hold of the skrull's sleeve, so she wouldn't lose track of him. Darkness envelops them. The bard blinks, waiting for his eyes to focus on…anything, really. They never do. All he can make out are those little cracks in the ceiling, and…now he sees it; thin ribbons of blue light hanging from above like stars on strings.

A rumble emits from somewhere nearby. It's not quite a growl; more of a throaty bellow. The bats scatter. Geralt presses a hand to the poet’s chest. Jaskier takes hold of his forearm. He stares ahead blindly, unable to see even three inches in front of his face. “Geralt—” he whispers nervously.

The witcher shushes him. His hand slides upwards and behind the poet's neck. Then, he pulls down, guiding Jaskier, and by extension, Ren, into a kneel. The low thundering returns, a little closer now. The bard begins to tremble, his imagination running wild with the possibilities. Geralt presses their foreheads together. Jaskier uses the feeling to stay grounded.

They remain still. Listening. He hears a little stone skip along the floor beside them. His breaths quicken. Geralt rubs his thumb along the back of his head. “Just stay still. Stay still." The witcher's voice is barely audible. The air in the cavern shifts, slightly teasing Jaskier's hair. He can hear more breathing, but it’s deep; neither Ren’s nor the witcher’s. A light sulfer smell floats over them.

Geralt’s hand slips from Jaskier’s head. The witcher rises swiftly, spinning and throwing out an arm, and shooting an arc of Igni towards the sound. For a brief moment, the creature is illuminated. Jaskier sees the head of a fowl, but featherless, with wrinkled dulaps that hang loosely from its throat and a comb that’s folded limply over the top of its head. Tusks jut out on either side of its mouth like a boar’s. It has a body like a forktail, long and smooth-scaled, with an arching back covered in sharp spines. The wings, one with its forelimbs, are leathery. Bat-like. It crows like a rooster with a tiger in its belly as it stumbles away from the flash of light.

“Basilisk!” Ren yelps. She falls away, yanking Jaskier along with her. “Don’t look at it! It’ll turn you to stone!”

“That’s a myth,” grunts Geralt. “But what _isn’t_ a myth is— _shit!_ ” Jaskier hears a shuffling of leather and jingling bits of metal, followed by a sizzling sound a few feet away. “Acid. It spits acid,” Geralt finishes flatly. The basilisk crows again. The witcher’s voice retreats to the other side of the cavern, “Don’t move! I’ll try to lead it away from you!”

Jaskier drops to sit on the damp stone, his breaths trying to catch up with his racing heart. He listens to the sound of the witcher fighting the monster with increasing worry. “Pox...I feel like I should be helping. But it’s so damn _dark_ in here.”

“He’ll be _fine._ This is what he does. He _kills_ ,” says Ren. Jaskier doesn’t like her tone.

The cavern fills with the resonating sound of metal clanging against the rock. Another blinding flash of Igni. The scaly rooster flaps its wings, leaping into the air to avoid it. The darkness returns.

“That’s not _all_ he does,” says the bard, blinking away the white spots that linger in his vision. “But it _is_ one thing he’s very good at.”

“Watch out!” Geralt roars. Something flies past Jaskier’s ear with enough speed to tousle his hair, just missing him, but not without leaving behind a light sting on his cheek, like tiny needles. Ren cries out from behind him. Jaskier prickles when he feels something else grab his arm, then realizes it’s her other hand. She squeezes _hard_.

“Fuck…it _burns_ …” she says. He can hear her breaths quicken from rising panic. She utters a string of colorful language; He can tell she’s fighting to keep her voice low—to not draw the beast to them. Her grip is trembling. He quickly wipes his stinging cheek with his sleeve and starts fumbling around on the floor, feeling for a puddle. There’s an echoing grunt and a metallic clatter nearby, sounding like Geralt had been rammed into and dropped his sword. Jaskier tries not to let the discouraging sounds distract him. _He’s fine. He can see. He’s fought worse things…Find some water…find some plowing water…_ Ren clings to him as he crawls around blindly. Finally, his fingers slip into the freezing cold liquid pooled in a depression in the stone. He puts his hand on top of her’s, pulls it off of himself, and guides it down to the water. “Here,” he breathes. “You ok?”

“I don't know…”

It’s not very encouraging. “Is it in your eyes?”

“No,” she says. A small relief. Jaskier hears splashing. The sprite hisses through her teeth. Another flash of Igni illuminates the cave. Then another and another, accompanied by Geralt’s angry roars as he no doubt tries to beat the beast back so he can retrieve his weapon. The basilisk screams at him angrily. Jaskier keeps his attention fixed on Ren. In the brief light of the fire, he sees her bent low over the puddle and clutching her chest. Water drips from her chin. She’s haphazardly thrown off part of her armor and untied the front of her undershirt, having pulled the strings through all the eyelets and yanked it open as wide as it would go. An angry-looking red scar rips across her chest, collarbone, and around the side of her neck and shoulder.

The cave returns to darkness. More splashing. More metallic sounds. More cursing from all sides. Jaskier feels _useless_. Maybe if he can reach the ceiling and grab the arbheal while the monster's distracted, they can all make a run for it? He looks up, eyeing the faint glowworms many dozens of meters above. He’ll be in and out. It's doable.

He stands and crouches slightly, extending his wings. “Stay here, I’ll be _right_ back,” he says to Ren, who makes a confused sound.

“Jas—? Wait!”

The poet runs towards the sounds of the fight, knowing it was the only direction he could safely bet on going without hitting a wall face-first. He gains enough momentum to take to the air and beats his wings hard and fast, rising as steeply as his strength would allow. The glowing blue strings grow in his vision along with his hope, but then fall away just as quickly when something takes hold of the wrist of his wing like a vice and forcefully yanks him down.

“Jaskier!” Geralt yells.

The faery gasps, shutting his eyes tightly and feeling his stomach drop as he is swung in an arch towards the ground. He feels—and, regrettably, _hears_ —something snap, followed by a searing pain. He clenches his jaw and curls into himself as much as he can, bracing himself for what might be a life-ending collision with the rock.

There’s a clattering below him, then a loud grunt as Geralt catches him, absorbing a good bit of the impact as they both fall hard against the wall. The witcher clutches Jaskier tightly and then jerks hard a couple of times. The basilisk screeches and lets go of his wing. Geralt must have dug his heel into the creature’s eye, or some equally vulnerable place, to make it drop him so suddenly. Geralt then shoves the bard off of himself with a pained grunt and stumbles somewhere further into the cavern, leaving Jaskier stranded on the cold stone.

“Don’t _fucking_ move!” Geralt barks.

Jaskier hunches into himself. Great. Now he’s injured, has _no idea_ where he is in relation to everybody else, and he managed to make a _complete fool_ of himself.

He hears a great number of sounds he can only assume the meanings of: claws scraping against rock, grunting, screeching, metallic clangs. He sits up when he hears a scream—the sprite’s. “Ren!" He leaps to his feet. It's too fast; The pain hits him hard. He wavers and nearly passes out, needing to brace himself against the cave wall. “A pox on it…‘don’t fuckin’ move’ my _ass_ ,” he mutters through his teeth, regaining his balance and then limping towards the sound. His wing, _screaming hot_ in protest, drags uselessly along with him.

The basilisk continues to crow and bellow and cough up acid. Geralt continues to cry out with effort. “Move left!” he suddenly yells. Jaskier doesn’t know if he’s talking to Ren or to him, so he side-steps and keeps walking. There’s splashing. There’s grunting. The sulfuric smell lingers in the stagnant air. Another flash of Igni. Jaskier spots them a dozen paces away, just as Geralt shoves his sword down the basilisk’s throat and out the back of its head and twists the grip violently. The monster's neck cracks audibly. Jaskier shivers. Ren is huddled against the wall just behind the witcher, staring up at the scene with wide eyes. Blood splatters over them both. The cave goes dark again. 

Jaskier follows the sounds of heavy breathing. His voice shakes. “Oh, gods, is everyone alright?”

“Been better,” Ren says poisonously.

“Jaskier, what were you doing _flying around_ like that?” Geralt asks in between breaths, his voice rising with anger. “I told you not to move. I could've handled that fine on my own.”

“I wanted to help...Thought I could grab the plant and we could all bolt. I didn't mean to—I was only leaving Ren for a minute—” He shakes his head as it dawns on him just how risky that was. “I'm sorry.”

“It was a solid idea that might’ve worked if we had planned ahead as a team. I _barely_ caught you in time,” says the witcher. His voice softens, then. “How’s your wing?”

“It… _really hurts_ , actually,” Jaskier swallows the lump in his throat, having put all his efforts into trying to ignore the gnarled limb until then.

Geralt snaps his fingers several times, having apparently found one of the torches on the floor, and manages to light it after a few tries. Jaskier squints as his eyes adjust, never more thankful to have a steady source of light. The faeries and the witcher stare at each other in the soft glow for a moment, battered. Ren stands slowly, her front soaking wet, gingerly keeping the collar of her shirt pulled away from her acid-burn. Jaskier clutches his wing defeatedly; It's _got_ to be broken. Geralt huffs and wipes blood off his face. A bruise is beginning to form around his cheekbone and a new scratch decorates his left clavicle. A second carves under the curve of his jaw and just behind his ear on the same side. Jaskier solemnly wonders whether it was the basilisk or his antlers, perhaps when he was caught, that made them.

Ren breaks the silence, sounding a little ashamed. “Thank you, Geralt, for saving my hide from that thing.”

The witcher nudges the monster’s snout with his boot. “Hopefully it will be easier to get arbheal in the future with the basilisk gone.”

“Speaking of, guess I’ll go gather some. Since I’m now the _only one_ with functioning wings,” the sprite mutters. She lets go of her shirt so she can properly fly and then takes off, hissing with pain as the fabric rubs against the burn. She’s back on the ground within a few moments, carrying two large fistfuls of something that looks a lot like the moss that hung from trees in southern kingdoms. She roughly presses them into Geralt’s chest, wilting with pain and practically collapsing into him. As soon as he takes it, she falls back to her knees and starts shoveling water back onto the burn, grimacing with pain and cursing under her breath.

“We should go,” says Geralt, watching her sympathetically. “Get out of this plowing cave and into the daylight so we can lick our wounds.”

After a slow, painful ascent out of the cave’s mouth, they emerge to a late afternoon sun. The horses, grazing lazily around the pines, lift their heads and perk up their ears.

“We’ll patch ourselves up, then we ride straight back to the castle. No camping,” says Ren. Jaskier groans and she shoots him a glare. “We _have_ to, if we’re going to make it back in time.”

“You’re right,” the bard sighs. Then, he beckons her. “Let’s see to you first. Geralt’s got lots of bandages.” Ren follows him over to Roach and sits amongst the pine needles while Jaskier digs around in the saddlebags one by one. _Swore he kept them in this reddish one…a pox on it. He must’ve changed how he organized supplies since we last traveled together._

“Your wing is _fucked_ ,” Ren mutters.

Jaskier continues to dig around, but hums loudly, feigning deep appreciation and interest. “Has anyone ever told you how _soothing_ your commentary is? It’s a real gift. Very motherly. The faelings must all come crying to you for comfort.”

“Mmhm. I tell it like it is. And right now, I see a proper messed up wing.”

“I had no idea.”

“You’re welcome.”

He rolls his eyes. “You know, if it weren’t for Geralt, _neither_ of us would’ve left that cave—Ah, here we are.” He drops to his knees beside her, bandages in hand, and looks over the wound. He fights not to squirm at the sight. It’s flaming red and peeling; deepest around the collarbone and chest. 

Ren winces, searching his expression. “It’s bad, right?”

“It…could be worse,” he says, shrugging crookedly. Ren cocks an eyebrow. Jaskier clears his throat and holds up the bandages. “Are you, um, comfortable with removing your shirt? I gotta get under your arm, you know and…and everything.”

The sprite thinks for a moment, eyes briefly rising to the sky, and then nods and turns her back to him. She slowly pulls her shirt over her head, unveiling the night sky of freckles that cross her spine. She pulls her long braid out of his way. Jaskier ducks between her wing and her shoulder so he can properly see the burns. Starting with her collarbone, he works gently over her, rolling out the gauzey fabric. He finds he has to pause every so often as he fights not to empathize too deeply. The sight makes him want to shiver, as though there were ants crawling up his neck.

Ren turns her head, meeting his gaze and pulling him out of his horrified stupor. She looks displeased. He hesitates. “What...too tight?”

“No. It’s perfect,” she says, and then softens. “I just...um...”

“What.”

“I’ll admit you were right...about Geralt. Despite his history, he’s got some...mmm...respectable qualities...I suppose.”

“ _Oh?_ ”

“I _guess_ I could get used to having him around.” Ren pauses, huffs, and then turns her head away, almost catching his nose with the tip of her spiraled horns. “Stop grinning like that, you loon.”

He chuckles. “Can’t help it. It means a lot that you said that.”

“I know." She rolls her eyes. "Gods, you’ve fallen for him _hard_. A witcher. Imagine that.”

“It’s true,” Jaskier sighs, pretending to be deeply burdened by the knowledge. He glances at Geralt, who is propped up against a fallen tree with his arms folded behind his head and his eyes closed, no doubt listening to them while he pretended to nap. As if to confirm Jaskier's suspicions, Geralt smirks at his words. The faery tosses a pebble at him. It bounces off the witcher's arm and he opens one golden eye.

“Fuck off, bard,” Geralt mutters around a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some basilisk-fighting music: [Feelin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vDCKNH-HnqA) by [Atomic Drum Assembly](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCj-sJkMtYY7hZ8PDS2VQ2GA)
> 
> :P


	15. Chapter 15

“Last one,” Ren grunts as she picks up a squirming plumard and dunks it into a tub of green mush. Her hands begin to work the salve into the fur.

Geralt’s been busy rinsing off the others, one by one, and drying them with a towel after they’ve each had the chance to sit covered in the bitter-smelling mixture for a few minutes. He struggles to keep the group of seven herded nearby.

Jaskier sits against the stone walls of the washroom, guarding the doorframe and strumming his lute, keeping the creatures calm with his music. He lazily nudges one back towards the witcher with the toe of his boot and watches it, amused, as it toddles back to hug the man’s leg. Geralt frowns down at the babbling plumard. Stationed in front of the window, the witcher’s profile is backlit by the peachy sky left in the wake of the setting sun, whose last rays streak the room's ceiling with gold. Jaskier can't help but sigh in appreciation. It's like a painting—he wishes he knew how to paint, sometimes.

Geralt doesn't notice the bard's wistful stare. He's looking at Ren, asking, “This really gonna work? They don’t look any different.”

“Give it a week. That’s what Asper told me,” she says, scrubbing behind the plumard’s large pointed ears. “They’ll fall into a deep sleep in a few hours, and over the next days lose their fur and morph back into what they’re supposed to be.”

Jaskier sits up and forward a bit, to lessen the pressure on his broken wing, which is in a sling tied across his shoulder. He says, “Gotta admit, they’re kind of cute as they are, beady eyes and bloodlust aside.”

Ren looks over her shoulder, dipping her wing out of the way to cock an eyebrow at him. The plumard hanging off of Geralt’s leg moves to cling to her’s. She blinks in surprise and looks down at it. 

“Nimble little fellas,” Jaskier says. “Look away for a second and they’re across the room.”

Geralt says, “They were running around from the second they were born...Fae biology differs from humans more than I would’ve expected.”

Ren returns to scrubbing the plumard in the tub. “Mmm. It’s true. Our young are kind of like…foals or fauns,” she says. “They’re born with instincts that allow them to flee danger or hide—Just in case they aren’t harvested in time and the fruit ends up dropping to the ground on its own. There are wolves in these woods that aren’t above preying on— _ah—!”_ She flinches when the plumard slaps a paw against her cheek, splashing the salve onto her face with it. “Good. Thanks. Love it,” she mutters.

Jaskier chuckles at the sight, but startles and looks up when there’s a knock on the doorframe. Asper is poking his head in.

“How goes it?” the king asks.

“Almost done,” Ren says proudly.

“Good.” Asper gives a curt nod. “I know you just got back from a mission, but I’m afraid I have to send you on another one first thing tomorrow morning.” Jaskier groans dramatically. Asper frowns down at him. “ _Just_ Ren."

"Oh." The bard shrugs into himself.

Ren tilts her head to the side. “What for?”

“There have been reports of humans gathering in unusual numbers in the village nearby. I want you to scope it out and tell me what they’re up to. I fear they may be preparing to retaliate after the prince took out their men.”

At once, Jaskier finds all eyes set on him. His shrug deepens and he plucks a single lute string.

“Why not send me?” Geralt says. “Ren has to stay hidden, right? I could at least talk to them, ask them what they’re up to.”

Asper’s brow furrows . “I still don’t trust you. However, you make a good point." He stares at the witcher for a moment, thinking. "Alright, I’ll send you and the commander together. But know this: If you try anything, she'll have your head. Of this I can _assure_ you." Geralt glances at Ren, who shrugs and gives him a smug little smile. Asper adds, "Jaskier? You’re on babysitting duty."

“Aw, _what_?” The bard melts onto the floor and groans even louder. The dramatic display makes his wing ache, but Ren’s snorting laughter, which gains fervor when a few of the plumards begin climbing all over him, makes it worth it. The creatures paw clumsily at Jaskier's chest and poke at his face. One of them sticks a finger up his nose. He sits up fast. ”Agh! Plowin’ hell! _Wretched_ little monster—”

Asper clears his throat. Jaskier glances up. The king is staring back, appearing _incredibly_ concerned about the future of the skrull species. The poet sticks his tongue out teasingly and then stands, cradling the offending plumard in his arms. He pouts. “Why am I getting left out?”

“You are _far_ too noisy for a stealth mission,” says the witcher. He takes the salve-covered plumard Ren hands him and starts washing it off in another tub. “Let’s be realistic.”

Feeling betrayed, Jaskier looks to Ren for backup. The sprite only shrugs and says, “Plus, you need to rest that wing of yours so the bones will set properly. That _also_ means no rolling around on the floor like a freshy-caught catfish.”

“You’re no fun.” Jaskier turns up his nose. “When I’m king, that’s the first rule I’m changing. Everyone shall be free to roll around as much as they please.”

“Gaia give me strength…” Asper rubs his face tiredly. “Ren, may I speak with you privately?”

“ _Oh ho ho_ , you hear that?” Jaskier holds the plumard out in front of him and stares into its shining black eyes. “Looks like we’re gonna have the place to ourselves! What do you wanna do? Eat some soap? Break some windows?”

Ren washes off and makes her way to the door. She pauses to playfully pat Jaskier’s cheek with her slender hand. He looks at her, and when their eyes meet, her’s are both fond and amused, like she’d love to join in on the mischief if not for her duties.

She says, “Be good, okay?” 

* * *  
  


“So, you and the bard...” Geralt begins, somewhat hesitantly, as he and the sprite walk down a narrow footpath through the woods beyond the nursery. “How did you end up being so close?”

“I feel like I should be asking _you_ that, witcher."

“I’m not the one who kidnapped him.”

“A fair point. If you really wanna know...hmm...” she trails off and rubs her chin pensively for a moment. “After he first got here and had an avalanche of revelations dumped on him, he seemed understandably lost and bewildered. I only added to that anxiety by telling him he _had_ _to_ take on the responsibilities of a king and that he couldn’t fuck it up because we didn’t need another thousand years of Vescailla’s policies.” She heaves a sigh. “I told him all that before he could even understand _simplest_ things about the fae. I felt guilty...It was my fault he ended up in all this mess in the first place.”

She pauses and screws up her face before continuing. “I... _know_ what an heir has to go through. When I first came across you two, I was quick to assume Jaskier was just a disloyal skrull cavorting with the enemy. But I should've recognized the signs...I wasn’t _thinking_. Vescailla laid claim to him before he was even born. The queen is powerful. She always gets what she wants. By the time I realized who Jaskier was, it was too late. We were in her throne room. I had no choice but to leave him at the queen's mercy. Even so, I found I couldn’t stop worrying about how he was faring under Vescailla's drills. He...reminds me of someone I once knew, and she broke down under the pressure many times.”

Geralt frowns, wondering what kind of grueling training the poet had been forced to complete—what _he_ wasn’t there to support him though.

Ren continues, not seeming to notice the way Geralt’s frame is beginning to wilt. “I hovered around the skrull castle and the orchard he retreated to, knowing he needed a friend; someone he could lean on and complain to and laugh with and ask stupid questions of...He really grew on me. I remember he was vehemently opposed to nearly everything Vescailla was teaching him, and was constantly lamenting the process. He just wanted to lounge around in that tree all day and play his lute." A pause. "Gods, his _voice_ is—”

"I know."

She smiles softly.

Geralt asks, “What could she have taught him that he would’ve hated so much?”

“Magic. _Especially_ the destructive type—which is nearly all of what he’s learned. It really freaks him out. He told me he's used to creating beautiful things, so destroying feels strange and wrong. But there’s also something there he never articulated: _Fear_ —but not just of Vescailla. It took me a while to figure out what else he’s actually intimidated by.”

“And that was...?”

“ _Himself_.” Ren says the word like it still confuses her. “His blood is filled with this ancient power passed down from his fae mother. He knows this, and I think he's hesitant to push himself because he's afraid of losing control. But he's a good person. You know."

"Mmhm."

"So at one point I explained to him that magic isn’t inherently good or evil. That it’s the wielder that makes the difference—so what is he so worried about? Butthen he'd _argue_. He'd list all the things he hated about himself.” Ren puts on dramatic airs, parodying the bard. “Oh, woe is me! Just listen to all of the terrible-horrible things I’ve done. I’m not who I used to be. I am a wretched creature, born of trickery and tainted blood, and should be cast into a dragon’s fiery maw! _Bluhhh!_ ” The sprite chuckles at herself.

 _I’m not who I used to be…_ Geralt considers the words and finds they hold truth. In the few years between losing and finding him, his gentle poet has been tempered into a warrior. When they reunited, it was in the shadow of a band of skewered villagers. The faery held his own against them.

Like he’s done dozens of times before, Geralt tries to imagine what that fight must’ve looked like, and fails. Despite being able to look around the scene and understand exactly what had happened, and in what order, in gruesome detail, he still has trouble seeing it clearly—picturing _his bard_ operating behind the nightmarish leshen façade.

It’s something that kept him up late into the first few nights they were together in that cave, wondering how such a dramatic change could’ve taken place. It wasn’t Jaskier's wings, his antlers or his little fangs that bothered him. It was the way he noticed the faery's eyes were just a little more rough around the edges, how he held his body just a little more guardedly, and how he reacted a little faster to perceived threats.

Geralt let himself relax more after Jaskier’s injury had begun to heal. The bard regained enough strength to start cracking his _terrible_ jokes and to become enamored with little details Geralt wouldn’t have ever noticed on his own; like the violets that grew at the cave’s entrance. Jaskier would talk about those unassuming flowers as if he’d fallen in love, describing their every minute detail, like the way the light shone through their petals, or how their color burst from the earthy backdrop.

The best poets are adept at turning love into an art. When the two of them would lay down to rest, the bard would sweep those lithe fingers over the witcher’s body with such finesse, like brush to canvas, that he’d feel elated. Like the sun itself were radiating outwards from his fingertips and enveloping Geralt's frame in warmth. That gentle, familiar touch was reassuring: Jaskier is, at his core, the same as he’s always been.

“I understand why he’s so self-deprecating," Ren keeps talking. "I’ve, um, put a lot of thought into this."

"I can tell." Geralt cocks an eyebrow.

"Well, I don't like watching him beat himself up, so I've been trying to figure out how to help. Anyway," She raises a finger. “I think his self-image has been disturbed by all of this leshy nonsense. He's fairly new to it, you know.”

Geralt offers a thoughtful hum, letting her know he's interested. She says, "His whole thing is being a poet, seeing the world through that lens. He's spent his whole 'human' life tending to that. But, I theorize he’s become so _attached_ to that idyllic idea of himself that he refuses to acknowledge that there might also be darker facets of his personality. To make things worse, he seems to have this ‘all-or-nothing’ type of thinking regarding himself.”

”Meaning?”

” _Meaning_ , he has a habit of thinking in extremes. He’s...mmm, what’s the word...perfectionistic. Jaskier makes a mistake and he tells himself he’s worthless. Ruined. Irredeemable. It’s a bit silly. Rather than saying, ‘That was a bad thing to have done,’ he says ‘ _I_ am bad.’" Ren pauses and frowns. "He holds such high standards for himself. Far higher than he holds for anyone else. But, all those _beautiful_ plays and paintings and songs he aspires to be like...they're just shadows of life.” Geralt nods in silent agreement and the faery scoffs, adding, “ _Real_ life? It’s messy—chaotic. I'm sure _you're_ well aware of this, witcher. You’d be hard-pressed to find somebody who was _wholly_ good or bad, yeah? Besides, 'goodness' and 'badness'—it's all subjective, anyway. Jas is just so...”

“Dramatic?"

Ren nods and smiles crookedly, a fang showing in a half laugh.

Geralt says, “You’d make a good witcher, being so perceptive.” The guard commander wrinkles her nose. The witcher smiles softly. His mind wanders back to his bard. He says, “It _is_ rather ironic, he and I being together.”

”Yeah?”

”Yeah. My profession demands I make difficult choices that have far-reaching, unknowable consequences. I’ve got a lot of blood on my hands that, looking back, I _regret_. I’ve made more mistakes than I can keep track of. In theory, I should be too much of a graceless mess for someone like Jaskierto appreciate. But that damned poet is _head over heels_ for me.”

“Your clumsy, morally ambiguous lifestyle might be _exactly_ why he’s so drawn to you,” says Ren. “I think, at least unconsciously, you remind him that it’s _ok_ to not be perfect.” She pauses and bites her lip before adding, a bit softer, “He _loves_ you...and if he can find it in himself to love you, then by the same logic he can love himself, too. I hope I’m right about that.”

“Me too.”

”I think…I may have put too much pressure on him to _not_ be like his mother,” Ren says. “I think it’s made him terrified of letting me down, and consequently _losing_ me as a friend—which is bullshit.” She crosses her arms. “He might make me _furious_ sometimes, but he’s stuck with me, whether he wants me around or not. That truth remains, even if the skrulls end up calling him ‘Vescailla the Second.’”

Oh, he _hates_ that name. Geralt can’t help the little laugh that escapes him.

Ren tugs at his sleeve and dips behind a tree. Geralt follows suit. "There they are. Humans,” the faery says warily. The two of them eye the village through the sea of sleeping trees, where they watch the residents walk among the huts. Ren's voice lowers to a murmur. “So, just like we’d planned?”

“Right. I mingle, while you, what, sneak around on the roofs?”

“Mmhm. S'a good vantage point." She extends a hand. “Let me pull you back through the veil. Right now, you’re still invisible to them.”

Geralt moves to take it, but then hesitates, remembering what it meant: She’ll be obscured from all his senses by default. There’s always a little voice in the back of his mind that reminds him that every job could be his last. “Ren?” he asks. She looks at him questioningly—and surprisingly fondly, all things considered. “I just wanted to say, thank you...for being there for him, when I couldn’t be.”

“Ah. Can’t blame you for that, seeing how I stole him from you,” she mumbles.

“Even so. You took good care of him.”

Ren is silent for a moment. Her eyes wander to the ground thoughtfully. When she looks back up, her smile's returned. “What would he do without us?”

“I try not to think about it. I value being able to sleep at night.” Geralt takes her hand. She pulls him towards herself, her form disappearing near-instantaneously. He straightens, adjusts his belt, breaths deeply, and walks calmly towards the village.

In the main square, people are gathered, just like the reports, all chattering loudly among one another. Twenty or so adults and several children surround a man with a bright red robe who is smiling smugly. He has a staff with a large clear quartz point on the end. Geralt narrows his eyes, recognizing a face he didn’t think he’d ever have the displeasure of seeing again. Stregobor.

“Be calm, my good people!” the mage calls, lifting a hand. “It is true, I’ve come with a potential solution to your problem. But you must not worry yourselves with the details. Your alderman and I have everything under control.”

Geralt tightens the strap across his chest by two holes—briefly reminded of the broach inlaid on his iron sword—and checks to make sure the hilt is within easy reach.

“How?” he can hear a woman ask. “How do you _know_ it’s more than leshens, wolves and Scoia’Tael in those woods?”

“For now, it's theory. But that theory is exactly what I’m here to test,” Stregobor says, looking a little annoyed. “Word has gotten around amongst the witches and wizards, and I have reason to believe you have a _fae_ infestation.”

 _Damn it, Yen._ Geralt sets his jaw from where he peers around a building corner. He finds his eyes drifting to the roofs, wondering where the faery is perched and if she’s hearing this.

“What the devil is a _fae?_ ” says the woman shrilly. The villagers once again fall into a loud, nervous rabble.

Stregobor shakes his long gray beard in displeasure, stamps the butt of his staff into the dirt and raises his hand. “Quiet, please! I’ll tell you. These rare and elusive creatures are _troublemakers_ by nature and seek to control you with illusions and trickery. They’ll make shady deals with you that always end in tragedy. Trust me, you don’t want these pests running free on your land. I am volunteering to _eradicate_ the threat.” Suddenly, as if sensing him, the mage’s eyes alight upon Geralt. The witcher stiffens and slips further behind the wall. “Oh, did you hire some muscle, alderman?”

Another man in a dark blue doublet whips around to look. His eyes narrow. “No. You there! Come out from behind that goose hutch at once!”

 _Ahh, fuck..._ Geralt immediately straightens and waltzes out from behind the structure. “Gentleman,” he says confidently. “I was just travelling through, overheard the commotion and was overtaken by curiosity.”

“Wait. I know you.” Stregobor frowns. “You’re Geralt. The butcher.”

“And you’re Stregobor, the coward,” Geralt says equally poisonously, remembering how the mage had fled to his homeland in Kovir after the scuffle in Blaviken. He crosses his arms. “Let me guess, you’re not doing this out of the goodness of your heart, but because you’re after fae parts.”

Stregobor’s wiry eyebrows raise. “You’ve guessed correctly, witcher.”

Geralt shifts his weight and lifts his chin, inflated with his knowledge. “And how do you suppose you’re going to _find_ these fae? Aren't they well known for their ability to elude human detection?”

Stregobor steps towards him and opens his mouth to say something, looking equally pious. But then, the geese scatter behind the witcher suddenly, as if a fox had jumped into the enclosure. Geralt turns to look, but nothing is there. His stomach sinks. 

The wizard’s eyes narrow perceptively. He walks swiftly over to the pen and pulls a golden amulet out of his robes, which is hanging around his neck. It is inscribed with a septagram—a seven pointed star—which begins to glow red when he holds it up authoritatively. The light illuminates several feet around him, and Ren’s position falls within it. She is decloaked in an instant, revealed to be perching lightly on the fence. She stiffens, her green eyes widening and flitting around confusedly at the dozens of equally-wide eyes set upon her. It takes a moment for the faery to comprehend that she’s indeed _visible_. It’s a moment too long. Stregobor thrusts out his staff and blue lightning erupts from its end with a loud crack, hitting her square in the chest. Ren cries out and falls to the ground, where she remains on her side, chest heaving and grimacing in pain, seemingly paralyzed.

“Here’s one now!” The wizard turns back towards the shocked crowd. “Sneaky little cad! See? What did I tell you? They’re _everywhere_ around here.”

“Stop!” Geralt roars, moving to stand between Stregobor and the faery.

The wizard turns back, straightening self-righteously. “For a witcher, you sure have an ever-growing record of _defending_ monsters, rather than slaying them. I’m giving you one chance, Geralt of Rivia. Step aside before I render you useless as well.”

Not wanting to cause panic among the villagers, Geralt slowly reaches up and lightly grabs the hilt of his sword. His voice is calm. “I won’t let you hurt her.”

“I would love to say how shocked and disappointed I am, but…” Stregobor takes another step closer. Geralt eyes his hands, watching for any sign of spell casting. He hears movement behind him. Distracted, he reacts a second too late. Two guardsmen who take hold of his arms and a third who presses the tip of a blade into his spine. Geralt curses under his breath; His sword barely made it halfway out of its sheathe. 

The alderman levels with the wizard, his hands folded behind his back. Stregobor says, calmly, “These are old elven lands. Are there any ruins nearby? Temples? Crypts, perhaps? I wish to run some…experiments, without distraction, so I may best discover how to aid you with the plague upon your settlement.” The alderman points to a grassy hill just beyond to the village, crowned with a ring of standing stones.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning: things get a bit darker from here on.

“Wasn’t this supposed to be a quick mission?” Jaskier nervously paces the floor of one of the castle’s guest bedrooms, eyes flipping from the plumards, nestled together and sleeping on the large bed, to the window, which overlooks the main gate, and finally to Asper, who is leaning against the doorframe, having been stopped on his way back to the castle’s small library. The king is staring intently down at the pages of a thick tome.

Jaskier pauses to glare at him, hands perched on his hips. “Are you even listening?”

“I think your anxiety is getting the best of you,” Asper mumbles. He stares at a drawing of a dragon while stroking his beard.

Jaskier throws out his arms. “Don’t you think they should’ve been back by now?”

“Not necessarily. What has it been…four, five hours?”

The skrull peers back through the window towards the gate, searching for the two of them. Still nothing. “I can’t shake this dreadful feeling that’s come over me…” he mutters, bumping his forehead against the glass and sighing heavily. He can hear the sound of a page turning.

“Shake harder, then. There's a reason Ren is the guard commander. Besides, she's cloaked. And Geralt…well, he’s a witcher. He can certainly take care of himself.”

Jaskier stands and turns swiftly back towards the king, not appreciating his flat, distracted tone. “I’m going after them.”

Asper finally glances up. “You’re overreacting.”

“I am not! Maybe you’re underreacting _.”_

The king closes the book with a loud thump _. “Jaskier—”_

“You can’t stop me. You’re not my king, and those plumards will be asleep for _days_ ,” says the bard. Asper sets his jaw and sighs out of his nose, and then starts making his way back down the hall. Jaskier calls after him. “Why don’t you get a _guard_ to look after them? I’ve better things to do!”

  
* * *

The crackling of torch fire is the only sound in the elven crypt beneath the standing stones. Geralt sits slumped against a support column with his hands bound behind his back, paralyzed by the same spell that afflicted Ren. He’d been hit with something similar before, when he’d accompanied the golden dragon Villentretenmerth on the hunt for his mate’s head and remembers how slow the spell was to wear off. He and Ren have been left alone, momentarily, in that dark and musty chamber, while the wizard went to fetch gods-know what kinds of ‘experimental’ supplies.

Ren’s flight feathers lay strewn across the tiled floor, tattered from struggle and cut into messy halves. Stregobor’s spell hadn’t affected the faery as thoroughly as it did Geralt. Ren managed to break through it once and tried to fly away for help, but the wizard struck her a second time, pinned her to the ground and haphazardly clipped her wings while Geralt watched helplessly. Now, Ren lays motionless, tied to the cold stone slab topping one of the crypt’s many coffins. Her arm hangs limply over the edge; her wrist sliced with surgical precision. Blood, as red as any human’s, continues to drip down her fingers and into a large glass container below.

Geralt’s kept his gaze fixed on her the entire time, his anxiety gradually rising into horror once he came to realize the incision isn’t going to clot. He sits with the awful, gut-wrenching knowledge that Stregobor likely knew _exactly_ what he was doing. Ren’s bright eyes have drooped closed and her breathing has slowed either to something Geralt can no longer perceive—or, worse, to a complete standstill. His body itches with unexpressed fury. He knows that Stregobor, surely still bitter about their encounter in Blaviken, only left him alive to torture him, forcing him to witness the faery’s slow decline.

He tries again to move his limbs, hoping that, perhaps through sheer will alone, he can break through the magic that made his entire body feel as heavy as a golem. He finds he’s able to move his legs upward, albeit maddeningly slowly, so that they’re folded close to his chest. It’s an improvement, but the knowledge provides little relief. The jar’s volume is about a gallon and it’s practically overflowing with blood.

Geralt didn’t want to accept it at first; That Ren is beyond the point of salvage.

He needs to get the hell out of here.

Geralt continues to try to make his muscles work for him. He’s eventually able to bring himself to a sluggish, ungainly stand by using the wall to brace himself. With his head, he pushes up on the base of the torch above him, lifting it past its holding ring. It falls, hitting the stone with a clatter without the flame going out. Geralt sighs, relieved, and drops to his knees, leaning far to the side so he can grab the torch behind his back. As he struggles to reach it, he loses balance and falls over with a grunt.

 _Fuck. Alright, this is fine...I just need to..._ With a bit of awkward fiddling, he’s able to maneuver the torch into his grasp. He carefully slides the handle through his fingers, pulling the fire closer until the heat on his skin is almost unbearable. Geralt wills himself to hold it there until he smells the rope singe. A moment later, it falls away from his wrists.

The sound of footsteps echoes down the hall. Geralt rolls over, clenching his abs and using the momentum to right himself. He snuffs out the flame with his boot, kicks it behind himself, then settles back against the wall. 

Stregobor enters the room and glances only passingly at the witcher, heading immediately for Ren. Upon seeing the glass container so full, with nary a drop spilled, the wizard makes an excited little sound that makes Geralt want to vomit. Stregobor switches the jar out with another one, then heaves the full one on top of the tomb. He digs a cork out of a pocket and jams it into the top, pounding it with his fist to seal the liquid in.

Geralt’s arms and legs begin to prickle with feeling.

The wizard bends over Ren, humming with interest. His fingernails tap inquisitively against the keratin of her horns. He slides a hand under her jaw and turns her head left and right. Then, he uses his thumb to curl back her lip, which has taken on a ghostly blue color, to peer at her fangs. “Hmm...If dragon teeth are valuable in spells, I wonder if faery incisors will be of any use?” he mutters. His hand slides to her neck and down to her shoulder. He peels back her collar. “Chemical burns? Wonder what happened there…”

He shifts his attention to her wings, grasping the wrist of one to open and close it curiously, pulling it this way and that, as if to test its mobility. He runs a hand along the top edge, digging his fingers in, feeling around for the bones. “The structure is just like a bird’s, metacarpals fused…oh, except the claw of the first digit is exposed, like a ratite’s or waterfowl’s…” He hooks the claw under a finger and uses it as an anchor to tug the wing open again. “Used by the young for climbing, perhaps? Fascinating. I’ll be able to write the premier literature on the species!” Another giddy sound escapes the mage.

Geralt didn’t realize it was possible to want to kill the wizard more than he already did.

Stregobor drops the wing and leans to the side to check the second jar; partially filled, but the blood flow has reduced to almost nothing, and the red streaks are now beginning to dry on the faery’s hand. He leans down to press his ear against her chest, briefly. When he straightens, his brow is furrowed. “Hmm. Not as resilient as I’d thought. Ah, well. There will be plenty more.”

The witcher, bristling with rage, stands and throws out a hand, hitting Stregobor with the strongest shot of Aard he can muster. The force throws the wizard back against the wall. The heel of his boot knocks into the second jar, spilling the blood across the stone. Stregobor groans in pain, but quickly rebounds and extends his staff, creating more of the paralyzing lighting.

"Fucking _witcher!_ " he bellows.

Geralt, still stiff, just _barely_ dodges the spell. Stregobor casts another almost immediately; The witcher slides around the column to shield himself. His eyes scan the room wildly. _What did he do with my fucking swords? Where are they?_ Another flash of lightning crackles past his ear. Without looking, he throws an arm around the corner and sends out another blast of Aard. He misses the mage, but can hear the stones around them shift from the force of the blast.

“Stop!” Stregobor cries out, sounding winded. “We can’t fight here, or the entire crypt might collap—” Abrupt, vicious, and unforgiving, a tangle of roots erupts out of the ceiling, tears into Stregobor’s chest, snakes between his ribs, tightens and _wrenches_ upwards, slamming the mage into the stone ceiling with enough power to cause it to cave in on top of him.

The witcher, astounded, falls back against the tomb supporting Ren. He coughs and winces, peering into the breach, where a shock of daylight stings his eyes. Something from above drops through, with a single wing half-spread, imposing antlers and a body coiled like a spring. Eyes glow electric-blue in the darkness.

“Jas—” Geralt starts, but shuts his mouth when those eyes meet with his and they still hold something feral. It’s only for a single, petrifying moment, before their harshness melts into something more familiar.

“Oh, Geralt…” Jaskier nearly collapses into the witcher’s arms, hugging him tightly. “Thank the gods, I was so _worried_ …” 

Geralt winces against the curve of an antler tine pressing into his cheek. His chest aches fiercely with the knowledge of what comes next. He says, gently, “Don’t thank them yet.” Jaskier pulls away to look at him, confused. Geralt side-steps, and the faery's eyes drop to focus on what lies behind. He gasps, as if the wind's been knocked out of him. His hand slips from around the witcher’s shoulders and he moves to loom over his friend.

“She’s...? I-Is she...?” Jaskier looks up, eyes searching for answers. But Geralt can’t will himself to say anything more—can’t bear to be the one that hurts him like that. He only watches sadly as the bard bends over her. “ _Fuck...”_ Jaskier takes a shaking breath. Geralt steps back, giving him space, unsure of what else to do. Jaskier fingers touch Ren’s cheek lightly, as if he fears she might fall into dust. Then, his back arches, his head bows and his knees slowly give out. He slides to the floor until only his arm clings onto the edge of the stone slab. He rests his forehead against it and shuts his eyes tightly, fangs showing in a grimace. There he remains, silent and still, except for the little sobs that shake him.

Geralt leans forward, teetering on the edge of going to comfort him, but is unsure of when it would be best to approach. He only takes a hesitant step closer when Jaskier raises his head to look at the opening he’d made in the ceiling.

_Uh oh._

“Jaskier,” Geralt says warily. He reaches out as the faery stands, head lowered and his fists trembling at his sides. The witcher’s heart sinks. “I know what you’re thinking, but this isn’t their fault. It was all Stregobor. You already took care of him...Jaskier?”

The skrull takes a few steps toward the light.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Geralt presses. Jaskier looks over his shoulder. His bluebird eyes, red with tears, regain their luminosity. Geralt recognizes that look. It’s the same one he’d sent Ren in the courtroom. Vescailla swooped in to mediate things back then.

This is different.

He takes a shuddering breath, forced to brace himself against the _awful,_ familiar dread that hits him like a punch in the gut. He must choose between his duties as a witcher and his aching heart. It’s Renfri the shrike all over again.

The faery leaps out of the hole with the swiftness and grace of a cat.

“ _No_ _!”_ Geralt calls after him. He grimaces and ruffles his hair, eyes racing around the crypt, searching for his swords among the darkness and debris. _  
_

  
* * *

Hatred, fervent and blind, is the only thing occupying Jaskier’s mind, bullying his grief into a corner. He makes his way swiftly towards the settlement, fangs bared, tearing across the veil to make himself seen.

He’s done hiding. He wants them to look into his eyes and know _exactly_ who destroyed them.

All it takes is a single swing of his arm to raze half the village with a swarm of woody roots. Dogs bark. Horses rear and squeal. The villagers scatter like minnows in a puddle. “Monster!” they wail and point and grab their children.

Fed by the faery's emotions, the wind picks up, rattling the trees, whisking the dead leaves from the ground and pulling the thatch from the roofs. Dark, heavy storm clouds roll across the sky.

His eyes flicker electrically with raw elemental power, leaching straight from the earth, up through the soles of his feet and spilling into every recess of his frame.

The fae prince roars; a leshen without a mask. The sound is ancient, guttural, sung by every cell in his timeless blood and rupturing out of his songbird throat like an earthquake. It’s the kind of sound that births tales of old gods.

The roots crack like whips, grabbing ankles and hoisting villagers into the air. Jaskier shakes them like ragdolls, thrashing them against the packed earth, snapping spines and then tossing them aside like dirty clothes.

 _Run. Run for your pathetic,_ selfish _lives!_

With a snap of his fingers, the dogs turn on their own masters, saliva spraying, jaws tearing into flesh. Lightning flashes from above, striking the remaining homes and setting them aflame.

Jaskier stalks into the center of the settlement, snarling, filled with more primal energy than he knew what to do with. A panicked man runs by him. Jaskier catches him by the collar, throws him against the cobblestone wall of the village’s well and gores him with his antlers. He pulls back to watch the villager gargle his own blood before he shoves the man into the dark, watery hole.

“ _Jaskier!_ ”

The skrull whips around. Geralt is standing with his sword held ready in front of him. The _steel_ one. Jaskier narrows his eyes.

“Don’t interfere!” the faery snarls—or, he _would’ve_ , if his vocal chords hadn’t seized up. He stiffens, confused, his fingers lifting to graze the base of his throat. He tries to say it again, but nothing comes out. His eyes widen with the creeping realization, quelling his anger with a powerful wave of disbelief. He stares at the witcher, frozen with the shock of betrayal.

Geralt hadn’t struck him, but he may as well have shoved that blade right through his heart.

Jaskier’s mind slowly returns to him. He looks around at the carnage. Fire. Blood. Bodies. His rapid breaths crumble into wheezes. He stumbles backwards, nearly tripping over a body, before turning and running for the woods as fast as his legs would carry him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that escalated quickly.
> 
> [Darkness Darkness](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TGFR79Yw5FU&list=PLmSJIJaebwCayqA0tBOiMS-Mgcna9-j67&index=7) by [Solas](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCIUWxwihkbf5uREl9hFPJHw)  
> 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs in this chapter:  
> [The Horror and the Wild](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NAskjmeIvg0) by [The Amazing Devil](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCeseDd6YnUSJhTEhTlNwyUw)
> 
> [This is Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fIewrm2Vg10) by [Air Traffic Controller](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCtIiWZbcH-hzppVi-bSUNuA) (lyrics slightly altered)  
>   
>   
> Blessed Beltane to my fellow pagans who celebrate! :)

Jaskier stops running once he reaches the orchard, miles into the forest. His throat is tight and stinging, his tired lungs ache, and his broken wing protests in pain. He finds his favorite tree and falls back against its lichen-mottled trunk, sliding to the ground and curling into himself, trying to occupy as little space as possible. Despite his incredible display of power, he feels small. He feels wretched. He feels like the very thing Ren hoped he’d never be. He’d made her into a martyr and killed in her name. Does she know? Is she disappointed?

_Be good._

Her last words to him echo mockingly in his head. What a _joke._ How is he supposed to reign in so much emotion-fueled magic when he feels so deeply, loves so fiercely, and follows his _selfish_ heart so readily?

Jaskier covers his face in his hands, pressing the heel of his palm into his reddened eyes.

He's been struck mute. Geralt broke the contract.

_That means, back in the village, when he'd called my name...he was truly prepared to..._

He shakes his head, unable to finish the thought, and wishes he could roar his frustrations into the open sky.

The surrounding trees, once such a gentle, ancient comfort, now seem to loom over him like disappointed parents. Their angular, leafless limbs sprawl above him like angry, grasping hands.

There's no going back from this. Surly the witcher now considers him a _true_ monster whose head is worthy of a hefty sack of coins. He’s _worse_ than the griffin near Oxenfurt that started all of this—and it had been killed for its petty crimes. Looking back, the beast didn’t know what it was doing. It didn’t realize its food source was “incorrect,” only that the sheep were easy targets.

Jaskier knew what he’d done was unfair. It wasn't self defense. It wasn't even tooth-for-tooth revenge. He _knew_ it was wrong,but he kept going, blinded by his passion and overwhelmed by the magic pulsing through his veins.

He sinks deeper against the rough bark, his silent sobs shaking him. He slips back across the veil, to the fae side, wanting to obscure his vile form from the rest of the world.

A familiar croaking draws his eyes upwards. He peeks through his fingers. It’s a raven—no doubt one of Vescailla’s. The bird hops from branch to branch until it is directly above him. It calls to him again, its voice like a rusty gate, then swoops down to land beside him. 

_Leave me alone._ Jaskier turns his head away. _You shouldn’t be here._

The raven ignores him and playfully yanks at the hem of his shirt. Jaskier pushes its head aside _._ It flaps its wings and bounces away, but then hops right back over and starts to tug at the cuff of his sleeve. Jaskier grits his teeth and yanks his arm out of the bird’s grasp.

_Stupid bird! Don’t you get it? It’s dangerous…I’m dangerous._

The raven stops and cocks its head questioningly up at him. Jaskier sighs through his nose, realizing it's just being playful. He hesitantly reaches out and places a trembling hand on top of its head, half expecting his arm to gain a life of its own and snap the poor animal’s neck.

The raven doesn’t shy away from his touch. He pets it gently, working his hand over its nape and then down to stroke the long, glossy feathers on its throat. The skin beneath the feathers is warm. The raven snakes its beak through his fingers and grumbles hoarsely, clearly pleased with the attention. Normally, an interaction like this would've made Jaskier smile. Not today.

He sits straight when he hears footsteps. He leans to look around the tree.

 _Geralt. Gods damn it all..._ Jaskier runs a hand through his hair and heaves a sigh, cursing at himself for not leaping across the veil miles ago. Surely the witcher followed his scent and tracks here. _Careless. Clumsy. Stupid..._

He waits, as still as a gargoyle, gritting his teeth in anticipation. Rather than coming around to face him, the witcher sits against the same trunk, but on the opposite side. The bard glances back and sees him leaning his elbows on his knees and lacing his fingers together.

A long moment passes before the witcher speaks. “I know you’re hurt and angry and grieving, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be alone right now. So, I’m just gonna sit here and quietly mind my own business. You can fuss all you want, but I’m not leaving.”

Jaskier glares and bares his teeth. _Why is he_ _drawing things out like this?_ _We both know what's supposed to happen._

He waits another moment, but when the witcher doesn’t move and doesn’t speak, Jaskier gets up, stalks across the orchard and finds a new, unassuming tree to slump against.

Geralt calmly follows and sits cross-legged nearby. Jaskier stares, bewildered. Geralt eventually closes his eyes, meditating just like Jaskier knows he does when he's got a particularly tricky problem to unravel.

He wonders how the hell Geralt knows where he is, but then remembers that trembling medallion of his. Jaskier rolls his eyes; He probably still _reeks_ of magical energy.

 _Strike me down or leave, damn it—_ This would be so much easier if he could speak the words aloud, rather than trying to bore them into the witcher's skull with nothing but his glare.

Time for a different strategy.

Jaskier places his palms on the ground and yanks the woods up around himself. The leshen glamour never felt more comfortable. He stands and lumbers over to Geralt, his limbs creaking and rotting wood falling off of him in chunks, hoping to inspire the witcher to act through intimidation. He leans slowly around the trunk Geralt sits against, gripping it with his long, woody fingers, and stares expectantly through his skeletal façade.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Geralt says. He doesn't bother cracking an eye open.

Nonetheless _,_ Jaskier looms, casting his shadow over the witcher. After a long moment, Geralt finally opens his eyes and looks up. The faery expects to see disgust, disappointment or hatred in his eyes. What he finds instead is something closer to—he can't believe it—understanding.

 _No. I don’t_ deserve _his kindness!_

He shoves Geralt's compassion away. It's so uncomfortably _out-of-sync_ with Jaskier's current emotional state that it feels like fire ants crawling over his skin.

 _Fight me! Kill me! Do_ something _, damn it!_

Geralt is going against everything he stands for, and for what? A monster. A murderer. A wicked, feral creature. It's not right. It doesn't make sense. Something is terribly _wrong_.

Well. If he's truly settled in his decision _not_ to plunge his steel through the leshen’s heart, then he needs to _leave_. Now. Because Jaskier can’t promise he’ll show the witcher the same courtesy.

He bends down, grabs the witcher under his jaw and lifts, forcing him to stand. Geralt is strangely passive about being handled. He tilts his head up and wraps his hands around leshen's arm, bracing himself as he slowly rises. Jaskier tightens his grip more and more, until he _finally_ catches the ghost of worry cross the witcher’s face.

_Good. Be afraid._

Satisfied, Jaskier throws Geralt to the side. The witcher stumbles on exposed tree roots and falls roughly. He rolls onto his elbows with a tired groan that betrays his true age. His golden eyes narrow at Jaskier in a discerning look—as if he thinks he _knows_ what's going through the bard's head. Jaskier finds it _maddening_. He waits briefly for the witcher to move—to make a fucking _choice_ already, but Geralt only stares patiently.

_Stubborn bastard!_

Jaskier doesn't want to hurt Geralt, but he struggles with how else to express himself.

Then, he remembers the cave. Remembers the crow that had woken him with a terrifyingly accurate imitation of his mother. An idea hits him.

He calls his flock. The birds begin to gather in the trees. Jaskier reaches out to the collective and instructs them to mimic his thoughts out loud—to be his voice while he has none. They obey, parroting the music in his mind. The resulting sound is less like his own melodious voice, and more haunting. It's a chorus of rhythmic, spoken word echoing across the deep woods:

_You were raised by wolves and voices,  
Every night I hear them howling deep beneath your bed…_

Jaskier grabs Geralt by his sword strap and hefts him up. He thrusts him against the nearest tree, at the same time forcing the witcher through the veil and back into the faelands.

The sole raven lands in a branch above them. Its deep, raspy voice rises above the others.

 _…You are that space that's in between  
Every page, every chord and every scream..._ _  
_

Jaskier keeps Geralt pinned, staring through the shadows of the elk skull’s eye sockets. He searches the witcher’s face for a reaction. Geralt is looking back with wary curiosity. More concerned than afraid.

It _hurts_ , being this loved. This is the part where it gets _difficult;_ wherethe other person is supposed to flee because _they didn’t sign up for this._

Wrong. This feels _wrong_.

Frustration rising, Jaskier lets him go and backs away slowly, extending the lanky, moss-covered boughs that are his arms, and gesturing to the sleeping forest, which hums to life.

_…Remember me I ask_   
_Remember me I sing._

_Give me back my heart, you wingless—  
_ _Think of all the horrors that I_  
 _Promise you I'll bring_  
 _I promise you,_  
 _They'll sing of every time_  
 _You pass your fingers through my hair and call me child_  
 _Witness me, old man, I am The Wild!_

The crow chorus takes flight, circling them like a hurricane, the wake of their wings tousling the witcher’s hair. 

Jaskier dispels the glamour, leaving him to stand exposed, all tattered feathers, blood-stained tines and scorpion-grass eyes that shine with power.

The sky darkens and the air crackles with electricity. Thunder rolls above, like horses of the gods are stampeding in fear.

_...Day by day, oh lord, three things I pray,_   
_That I might understand as best I can,_   
_How bold I was, could be—will be—still am, by gods still am!_

_Fret not, dear heart, let not them hear,_   
_The mutterings of all your fears, the fluttering of all our wings_   
_Welcome to the storm, I am thunder_   
_Welcome to my table, bring your hunger_

_Think of all the horrors that I_   
_Promise you I'll bring_   
_I promise you, they'll sing of every time_   
_You pass your fingers through my hair and call me child_   
_Witness me, old man, I am The Wild!_

The murder starts to swarm chaotically. Lightning flashes and wind howls, kicking up the damp leaves on the ground and filling the air with ozone and petrichor. The clouds spit at them.

Jaskier calls up roots. They writhe around him like a kayran’s arms, weaving together to form a makeshift throne. He sits heavily, crossing one leg over the other with a graceful flourish.

He rests a cheek on his knuckles and looks down at Geralt with a self-assured and darkly playful stare he _hopes to the gods_ is convincing.

A pair of crows land on his antlers, adorning them like obsidian inlaid in a crown. They continue to chant ominously:

_Remember me  
Remember me  
Remember me…_

Geralt slowly approaches the prince, fighting the wind, an arm lifted to shield his eyes from debris. Their eyes lock. Jaskier smiles nastily, baring his fangs and delighting in the witcher’s struggle. He waits.

_Remember me I ask_

_Remember me I sing…_

_…Think of all the horrors that I_   
_Promise you I'll bring_   
_I promise you, they'll sing of every time_   
_You pass your fingers through my hair and call me child_   
_Witness me old man,_   
_Old man,_   
_Old man,_   
_I am the—_

Once Geralt is close enough, Jaskier lifts a leg and kicks him square in the chest, shoving him back through the veil so that he once again disappears from the witcher’s senses.

Geralt stumbles backwards and falls ungracefully to the ground. He sits up slowly, wincing in pain.

Jaskier waits. The witcher still doesn’t leave.

The wind gradually dies down, the clouds slowly disperse and the forest goes back to sleep. Jaskier’s crows linger in the trees, surrounding them.

Geralt settles himself where he is, sitting cross-legged facing Jaskier. His brow is creased with concern and with what must be some type of veil-crossing whiplash.

“I know you want me to be afraid,” he says coolly, and stares _right_ into Jaskier’s eyes despite being unable to see him.

Jaskier’s heart palpitates. He squirms in his makeshift throne. Rather than instilling fear in the witcher, the faery begins to feel a trickle of it in himself.

Geralt goes on, only salting the wound, “I also know you’re not doing this because it’s what you _want_ , rather because it’s what you think you _deserve—_ and hell, maybe you’re right.”

Tears sneak up on Jaskier. They spill warmly down his cheeks before his mind is able to process the sea of emotions he's drowning in. He picks them out slowly: aggravation, duplicity, heartache, and a hint of a _peculiar_ kind of relief that comes from being so fucking _known_.

He tries his best to shake the weight off his back and sends the raven to Geralt’s feet.

“ _Fuck off_ , witcher,” it croaks.

Geralt shakes his head slowly. His shoulders quiver in a quiet chuckle. Jaskier lifts his chin and cocks an eyebrow, unsure of whether or not to be insulted.

“You’ve lost your voice, yet you somehow manage to be more _vulgar_ than ever,” Geralt says, and looks back up at what his eyes perceive as an empty throne. The bard says nothing. "Jaskier, I’m not going to apologize for the thought that crossed my mind—I exist to defend the vulnerable from _all_ manner of beastly threats, even when that threat is a chaotic, _beautiful_ force like you.”

Jaskier knows this, but he doesn't want to hear it said aloud. So, he does what he deems most appropriate in that moment: he picks an acorn from the ground and chucks it at the witcher. The nut smacks him right in the center of his forehead.

“ _Hey!_ ” Geralt rubs the spot, his nose wrinkled and his lips twisted. “ _Come on_. You can't expect me to stand by while you—"

"They wanted us _dead_! I heard them talking to one another while I was sneaking around, searching for you two."

"They didn't do anything except fall prey to Stregobor's fearmongering."

Jaskier's upper lip curls back to unveil his fangs in a snarl. "How are you _still_ defending them? They would've _happily_ watched while that wizard and his men hunt us down like rabbits."

"You don’t know that for certain. They were innocents. You _know_ my code. Don’t pretend like you don’t.”

“I thought you said your ‘code’ was a load of _horse shit_ ,” says the raven.

“I _meant_ there isn’t a hard and fast set of rules written down somewhere. But I have my moral limits, just like everyone.”

The faery grips the arms of his seat, grappling with his next words. “If you're not here to take my head as a trophy, then it's best you leave."

_"Jas—"_

_"I’ll hurt you_ ,” the bird interrupts. “It’s imminent. Don’t you get it? I'm a monster. You're a witcher. There will come a day where I lose control again.”

“Stop trying to scare me away. You don't actually want that—and I’m not _abandoning_ you.”

The faery’s entire frame stiffens in protest. The wave of emotion summons the wind without his meaning it to. It whistles around the tree branches, bending them back. The crows hunker down where they perch. Geralt remains unmoved, and the gale soon fades in tandem with Jaskier’s will. The faery reminds himself he's got to be careful with his heart. He takes a slow, deep breath, and sits back.

The raven says, gently, “You may not be afraid, Geralt, but I am.”

“That’s _exactly_ why I’m not giving up on you. I know you. I _know_ you're better than this.”

Jaskier grimaces with the ache in his chest. He closes his eyes against the strange mixture of relief and sorrow the witcher’s words brought. He doesn’t know what to say.

“Jas?” Geralt adds, hesitant. “What happened was terrible. I know you’re grieving. I know you're overwhelmed. We can work through it.”

“Why are you doing this to yourself? Why don’t you just do your fucking _job_ and get rid of me?”

“I don’t think I can.”

“ _Really?_ ” Jaskier stands, anger once again spilling into his body and pushing aside his sadness. The raven returns to his shoulder. Its words are slow and accusing, “If that’s truly the case, then why the fuck am I _mute?_ Ah? _Answer me,_ Geralt!”

It's a moment before the witcher speaks. He lowers his head. “I’m not going to _deny_ that the intention was there, if briefly. I drew my sword. I was prepared to do what had to be done. But, you stopped on your own. Which is good, because, if it came down to it…if we had actually fought one another..." He pauses and chews on his lip. Jaskier narrows his eyes. "You know that thing they say about witchers never dying peacefully in their beds, don't you?” Geralt glances back up. Jaskier can almost _feel_ his sincerity pressing into him, and it hurts.

Everything about this _hurts._

He steps forward, bringing himself and the raven back across the veil, shoving the energy aside like a curtain. The witcher stands upon seeing him. He and the faery lock eyes; cobalt pressing into gold like in a lapis stone. Geralt looks _pathetic._ Like he’d traded away his power in a reckless and wicked deal.

...Is _this_ what it means to love a fae? Is there something more at play than either of them understand? Could the legendary Geralt of Rivia _truly_ be acting though his own will, or is he simply dancing like a puppet to a spell Jaskier doesn’t realize he cast?

At that moment, something shifts inside the faery. His lips part in an impish grin and his chest rattles in a silent, fangy laugh. The raven, in sync with him, cackles and takes to the air. It circles the area and then dives to playfully graze its claws against the top of Geralt’s head.

The witcher ducks slightly and covers his scalp, sending the bird a glare. The raven loops around. It cries out in delight, “You’re not a wolf, Geralt, you’re a _dog!_ Still sitting here at my heels, despite everything. Oh, this must be _true love_.”

The witcher warily watches the raven as it circles, then looks back at Jaskier. The faery stalks slowly around him, appraising him hungrily, like a hawk would a sparrow. He mouths his words, and the raven faithfully echoes them aloud, seeming to _revel_ in the spirit of it: 

_You're no good, you're no good_  
 _You could kill me and you should_  
 _I'm an idiot for thinking_  
 _This was anything but blood_  
 _On the wing, on the house_  
 _On the corner of my mouth_  
 _You must like being the victim_  
 _You've done nothing to get out_  
 _Of this pattern of pain_  
 _Washed away by the rain_  
 _You'll forgive me if I promise_  
 _And do nothing but the same_  
 _This is life until death_  
 _Could be my last dying breath_  
 _But this is love, love—shut up, this is love  
_  
Jaskier snaps his fingers, bringing his murder across the veil. They join in on the taunting:

_Forget everything you used to know  
I think you better tell your ‘code’ to go  
Stick around ‘cause I'm about to show you  
The beginning is the end  
_

Jaskier shrugs dramatically, miming his words.

_Yeah, I know wrong, I know right_   
_But I just love to pick a fight_   
_I can sleep with one eye open_   
_If there's any sleep at night_   
_I got my fangs, this is fun_   
_Let's see how fast you can run...  
_

He circles, sweeping his fingers down Geralt’s cheek and beneath his jaw.

 _...We’re pathetic, I know_  
 _Possessive fools who won't let go_  
 _If I was sorry for my actions_  
 _Would I ever stoop so low?_  
 _Got no reason to live_  
 _And I've got nothing left to give you_  
 _But my love, love, fuck it, this is love…  
_  
Jaskier leans heavily back against Geralt. He feels the witcher tense against the added weight, and then flinch when the raven lands on his shoulder and sings into his ear:

_…Musical hit as a kid_   
_I was good but now I quit_   
_Everyone that tried to fix me_   
_Knows that I can't change a bit_   
_I’m full of shame, got no pride_   
_Only skeletons to hide…  
_

Jaskier tips his head back and to the side, resting his cheek against Geralt’s shoulder.

_…Once you chase me down the hole_   
_Yeah, once you think you're in control_   
_You'll believe that we are partners_   
_And you'll feel so comfortable_   
_Oh then the darkness rolls in_   
_And you'll forget who I have been_   
_Oh, but you'll love, love, love it, this is love…_   
  


Jaskier stands; Geralt stumbles backwards. The skrull catches him by the sleeve and spins him around, grasping at his collar and swiftly pulling their faces close.

His antlers loom over Geralt’s frame like the talons of a dragon. They stare at each other, a whole soliloquy’s worth of meaning passing between them in a fraction of a second.

_…This is love, this is love,_

_This is love, this is love,_

Geralt’s eyes are wide; spellbound. Jaskier’s wicked grin remains. _You’re mine_...He pulls Geralt into a kiss, digging in with his fangs. The witcher grunts in pain, but doesn’t pull away. Jaskier can taste the iron in his blood. It _burns_ his tongue. He claws at the back of Geralt’s head, desperate to draw him in further, wanting to blend with him so he could fill the aching breach in his heart and maybe, _for a change,_ feel fucking whole.

It doesn’t take long for his grief to catch up with him, dripping over him heavy and thick like mud. Jaskier steps back, slouches and covers his face with one hand, ashamed of his own _wretchedness_.

He wavers momentarily, feeling detached from his own body, as if he's floating slightly above it; as if reality blinked. His other hand slips from the back of Geralt’s neck down to his shoulder. He grips it firmly, using the witcher as a temporary anchor to keep himself grounded. Geralt's hand moves to the faery's waist, steadying him.

"You won’t leave,” Jaskier says through the raven. It’s neither a question nor a demand. It’s resigned.

“No.” Geralt wipes his bleeding mouth on his sleeve.

Jaskier grits his teeth, shoving down another wave of frustration. This feels like another gamble they’re both going to lose. He sighs and shakes his head, not knowing what else to say, other than, “You’re making a _mistake_.”

”Perhaps.” A pause, filled with trembling hands and avoidant glances. Geralt remains astonishingly calm, a reliable anchor for Jaskier’s erratic energy. “What now?”

The faery reluctantly shifts the tracks in his mind away from the anxious loop he's caught in and ponders their next step. His mind instantly returns to Ren.

 _Ren_.

His chest aches fiercely. It’s all so unfair.

“We need to go back for her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Heroes and Monsters](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2UT9HgTd81E) by [Penny & Sparrow](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCsgYIJmYNpbF7KovoHqzprw)  
>   
> [Tongues & Teeth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ekYp5LCXM_0) by [The Crane Wives](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCoPTtb6E_Z6J7gVa6E8Z_Jw)


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song:  
> [Hieroglyphs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cX1Tns36rZk) by [The Oh Hellos](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCwfDOdW0FOILPpwJBcA62wQ)

Jaskier’s consciousness is roused by the sound of music; of crickets and songbirds and…something else.

He wanders through dark, unfamiliar woods, following the noise until he reaches a clearing with a roaring bonfire.

There are animals; wolves and deer, rabbits and badgers and foxes, all standing up on their hind legs, drinking wine, chatting and wearing flower crowns—merrymaking like it’s Beltane. But it _certainly_ isn’t, his logic interrupts. This forest should be asleep. The leaves should be long gone, the bears in their dens, the flowers having retreated back into their roots.

It’s _supposed_ to be Samhain.

 _Oh._ Jaskier grows tense, watching with morbid curiosity. Their eyes glow a ghostly white. Their hides are riddled with arrows. Blood stains their fur. But they don’t seem bothered by it. Some of them are dancing around the flames, kicking up leaves and dirt; others swaying and whirling joyfully while singing alongside an _achingly_ familiar voice:

 _Stamping your heels along with the drum  
Praying the serpent's underneath one of them  
Like there's some villain left to defeat  
Instead of a dance with a rhythm and beat_

_'Cause we’ve been too busy thinking ahead  
Of where we're all going after we're dead  
To maybe consider our bodies are worth  
More than the dust that we can return_

_To the ground again, around again,  
We turn that old wheel ‘round again_

“Ren?” he breathes, and doesn’t stop to question why, suddenly, he can speak with his own vocal chords. He steps into the fire light.

She stops, looks at him and smiles. She grabs his wrist and wordlessly pulls him into a flowing, dance. He follows her guide, his feet moving gracefully, seemingly of their own accord, like she has him under a spell. The freckles on her body glow like constellations. Her hands are warm. She twirls him and...he can’t help but laugh.

Ren sings along with the woodland animals:

 _Even the great celestial hieroglyphs  
Are bodies of dust illuminated, and if  
The heavens can be both sacred and dust  
Oh, maybe so can the rest of us!_

_'Cause I've seen the line of ocean and shore  
The tumbling tide of water and soil!  
And I've seen the day's fading begin!  
The gradient wake of the sun that spins_

_Around again, around again,  
It'll burn that old wheel down in the end!_

They come to a stumbling standstill; He’s breathing heavily, chuckling and shying away from the loud, drunken howling of the animals. Before he can say anything, Ren pulls something out of a pouch on her belt. She holds it up. Suspended on a thin metal chain is a stone: dark green, with milky white patches, and cut into a perfect wheel. A pair of shining bronze crow feet grasp either side.

Ren takes his hand, presses the pendant into his blood-stained palms and closes his fingers around it. The shame creeps over him as he looks into her pale, ghostly eyes; They’re smiling, despite it all. He finds he can’t. 

“I’m sorry,” he chokes, tears welling.

“I know.”

Ren tugs him into a long, healing hug. When they pull away, she playfully grasps the base of his tarnished antler, weighs against it until he bows a little. She kisses his forehead and lets him go. He closes his eyes against the fierce ache that arises in his chest.

“The more the merrier!” a tipsy wolf howls. Jaskier feels a sudden prickling up his spine and swiftly turns around. There are more people emerging into the light of the clearing. One of them has sopping wet hair and a chest dripping from multiple stab wounds. The bard’s heart skips a beat.

Ren gives his shoulder a little squeeze, pulling his attention back to her. “You can do better,” she says, and gives him a daring, but encouraging look.

Jaskier wilts. Ren’s hand lifts once more to gently cradle his cheek and he finds himself leaning into it. He wants to tell her he agrees with her. That he’d made the biggest mistake of his life and he isn’t sure how to make it right. But her fingers slip away, and she leaves his side to greet the new arrivals before he can will himself to answer. A grinning fox with a nasty gash across its neck pours the guests wine. It smells like really _fucking good_ wine.

“Go home, faery! Or do I need to remind yer veil-walkin’ feathered buddies yer not s’pposed to be here?”

Jaskier blinks and looks down. A badger is staring at him, paws on its hips. “Right…sorry…” the bard mumbles. He looks longingly up at Ren.

“Bah, stop makin’ those puppy dog eyes. Linger here too long and ye won’t wake up. S’fer yer own good. Now get!” The badger kicks him in the shin.

“Ow! Alright, I’m going!”

He wakes immediately, finding himself back in the small, dark side room of the elven crypt. He lifts a hand to rub his forehead and blinks the strangely vivid dream away. His heart aches hungrily, as if it were a plant ruthlessly torn from the nourishing earth it rooted itself to.

The raven watches from atop a nearby urn.

It would be fair to question how he and Geralt managed to sleep in the crypt at all.

Poorly, is the answer.

Both of them were emotionally and physically exhausted—he still is, if he's being honest—by the time they’d walked those long, unbearably _quiet_ miles back to the town. The sun was setting and there were no huts left to shelter in. There was _nothing_ left of the little village, really, except for smoldering ruins and the stone well. Jaskier couldn’t bring himself to look too hard, though.

The first rays of a new day spill in from the opening he’d made in the ceiling, in the main room of the subterranean building. It creeps towards the entryway. Jaskier stands, aching all over—sleeping on stone isn’t kind to one’s spine. He ruffles and shakes his feathers, freeing them from dust. The specks float lazily across the light. 

He doesn’t bother to peek his head into the shadowed room across from his own, where Geralt settled down for the night. The bard couldn’t blame him for wanting some distance. Yet he questions why the witcher still stubbornly hovers around his vicinity at all. Jaskier shoves down the hollow feeling and the solemn question that always accompanied it, and opts to release his tension with a heaving sigh instead.

He takes a moment to gather his courage before facing the crypt’s main chamber and what he feels he needs to do. Then, he steps lightly down the hall. He leans into the room hesitantly, part of him expecting to see her ghost. But he finds the area is just as cold and lifeless as he’d left it.

She’s laid out on the ground, wrapped in a linen blanket the same way Geralt would cover some beast he’d slain and needed to travel a ways with. He’d let the witcher take care of the task. Jaskier was never good at dealing with death, except for in the poetic sense. Besides, he’s still in denial. His mind refuses to see anything laying there but a stunningly accurate likeness of his friend; an expertly crafted work of art he would be sure to commend the artist for later. They got everything right, after all, right down to the freckle.

Jaskier sighs and rubs his face. Who is he kidding?

He kneels on the floor above her, plagued with a question he has to know the answer to. He carefully peels back the cloth and opens the same pouch on her hip she had reached into in the dream. He feels a thin chain and must take a moment to gather himself from the strange feeling that comes over him—it’s similar to when one finds themselves gazing up into the night sky and is paralyzed by the vastness of it. He pulls; The same necklace is brought, gleaming, into the morning sun.

It’s wrapped around a little folded piece of parchment. The surprise of it, and the dread of what it meant, causes him to go rigid. He takes a deep breath, sits back and unfolds it with trembling hands.

_Jaskier,_

_Happy kidnapping day! I know that’s a weird thing to be celebrating. But, I’ve been thinking a lot about how far you’ve come since that fateful day. I saw this necklace at a skrull craftsman’s tent during one of the harvest festivals and immediately thought of you—It’s got cute little crow feet, and moss agate, which is a perfect stone for you. It’s a crystal of the forest and carries energies of abundance, creativity and strength. Let it remind you that the wilds will always be there to protect you, if you treat it with respect._

_I’m proud of you, for how hard you’ve worked. I know coping with such a radical change has been difficult._

_What I’m trying to say here, with this little gift, is…be it by fate or by chance, I’m glad we crossed paths. I can’t wait to watch what kind of king you’ll become._

_-Ren_

Jaskier rubs away the tears with the heel of his hand. _Gods damn it all. It’s too early in the day for this..._ He hesitates, staring down at the way the light shines through the semi-opaque crystal, before finally clasping the jewelry around his neck. It comes to a rest just below his clavicles and feels a little odd weighing there—like he hasn’t earned _the right_ , because he feels he's only ever let her down. But, if he’s to believe the dream—and how _can’t_ he—it seems to signify she wants him to have it. He may be one step below a demigod, but he isn’t about to mess with a ghost.

 _Especially_ not her's.

Jaskier lays on a workbench in the skrull castle’s apothecary, having carelessly shoved various bowls, bandages, notebooks, surgical tools, and various jars of ointments and powders aside to make room for himself. He holds Stregobor’s golden amulet above his face, twisting and turning it in his fingers, examining the way the light played off the septagram. He’d never seen a symbol like that before, and neither had Geralt, which the Witcher had tiredly proclaimed after they’d dug up the wizard to assure the fae-revealing pendant didn’t end up in the wrong hands.

“Hand me the hawthorn?” Vescailla asks from a few feet away. She’s working at another, larger table in the center of the room.

Jaskier, sighing heavily, lowers the pendant to look over the wall of glass jars filled with herbs above him—and the single raven that sits perched on top of said shelf. The dried ingredients are arranged alphabetically by scientific name, every one of them painstakingly labelled with a collection date and location. Each label has a colored spot of dye in the corner: blue for medicinal, red for danger.

_Crataegus…Crataegus…_

His eyes roll over the labels dully. He knows the scientific names of all the plants in her collection. Herbalism is one thing she taught him that he actually enjoyed.

He remembers offhandedly mentioning to Geralt, years ago, shortly after they’d first met, that if he were ever forced to hang up his lute, he would take up gardening. With his voice being shot, now was perhaps the perfect time to do just that. But he struggles to find the motivation to do much of _anything_ at the moment.

He feels tired and heavy, like someone had poured a chalice of pebbles down his throat, and they’d subsequently worked their way into every crevice of his body. His mind's been clouded. All he’s wanted is to lay around, staring at the walls, or sleeping—and that’s exactly what he’s done all week. He keeps himself still, withdrawn, carefully conserving what little energy he has like he’s saving it up for later.

But no amount of rest seemed to make him feel better.

Jaskier sits up to grab a container, his hand hovering momentarily between one with white flowers, one with leaves, and one with bright red berries, all labelled as the same plant. He grabs the last one and lazily holds it out over the tableside, shaking the contents so the sound grabs the queen’s attention.

Vescailla adds a pinch to the mixture of rose petals and mimosa bark in the mortar. Jaskier continues to stare at the colorful contents of the other jars, listening to the soft crunching sound of the pestle grinding away. His baggy eyes sweep across _Achillea millefolium, Citrus bergamia_ and _Echinacea purpurea,_ and all the way down to _Passiflora incarnata._ He stops at the jar labelled _Ranunculus acris_ and stares at the red dot adorning it with a bitter feeling.

Jaskier. Buttercup.

The name Vescailla chose for him is beginning to make a lot more sense. The sunny little flower is equal parts resilient, shining, and _poisonous_. He wonders if she knew what he was destined to become all along.

The raven’s deep voice floats over the room from above. “What’s the point of storing these toxic plants? I’ve never seen you go out of your way to poison anyone.”

Jaskier still isn’t used to the delay between his thoughts and the manifestation of the words, as if one of his vital organs must be clumsily, manually managed from afar. It feels a bit like trying to reel in a feisty catfish. The bird doesn’t always properly convey his tone. Nevertheless, he’s thankful to have its services.

The bard waits, not really caring that Vescailla takes a long time to answer him. She’s focusing on taking a kettle off the fire and gradually pouring the boiling water over the herbal mixture, which she’d transplanted onto a cheesecloth, tied closed into a little bundle, and tossed into a stoneware mug. The water penetrates the bag of herbs and comes out carrying their essence away with it, tinting it a warm brown.

Finally, the queen says, “Don’t be so quick to show contempt. There are cases in which conventionally toxic plants can also heal. Digitalis, for example, is an _extremely_ deadly plant. It can easily stop one’s heart, but when administered in a very small, exact dose, it can also remedy specific ailments, such as dropsy. As with many things in life, the key is to learn to walk the line between too little and too much.”

Jaskier sighs. If there’s one thing that describes him, it’s “too much.”

Vescailla takes the steaming mug and carries it over to him. “Drink up, Buttercup.”

He lifts an arm to take it only after it is suspended directly above him, so he doesn’t have to make any extra effort.

The “heartache tea” never does much to lift the pervasive heaviness. But it’s warm, which juxtaposes how lifeless and cold he feels, and it doesn’t taste _completely_ like shit.

Vescailla returns to stoke the hearth fire.

As the brew settles in his belly, Jaskier finds the motivation to sit up, swinging his legs over the tableside. He sips and mulls over a question that’s been nagging him for days—one that he now associates with the taste of the drink. He finally decides to ask it aloud, in the hopes it might quell the itchy fire of doubt which seems in no hurry to leave on it’s own.

“Vescailla...what does it mean when you claim someone?”

“It’s energy, dear heart. Just like everything.”

“But how does it work?”

Vescailla rummages through the smoldering logs with a metal poker, turning them and causing them to hiss and crackle. “In theory, I could claim whoever I want, whenever I want, tying them to my fate and altering their destined path,” she says. “It is traditional—and simply polite—to make a deal with the other party beforehand. But by no means is it necessary in order for a claiming to take place.”

Jaskier cradles the mug in his lap, taking solace in the gentle heat. “Can you do it by accident?”

“No. It requires intent. But you can do it unconsciously.” She makes her way back to the table and begins to clean it off, corking jars, straightening things, and sweeping crumbs into her hand to cast into the flames.

“How do you know when it happens?”

“You know when they can’t seem to rid themselves of you, and neither can you of them,” she nearly laughs. “You know when you look at them and you want them all for yourself, the same way one might admire a pretty outfit at a merchant’s stand. You in particular should be careful, because you are in the habit of letting your heart run rampant. You let it drag you wherever it pleases.”

She pauses, then adds, “Did you know, Buttercup, that the heart has a magnetic field? A strong one will draw in the field of other’s. You are powerful, Jaskier, but you are also impulsive. You love too _recklessly_. Creatures like you and I cannot afford such a luxury without having forged an acute awareness of the consequences. Otherwise, you’ll not only unintentionally hurt others, but also yourself.”

The sinking feeling the bard feels at that moment, which proves beyond a doubt that his mood can _somehow_ still drop lower, is precisely why he’d put off asking the question. He runs a hand through his hair and looks down at his knees.

“ _Shit,_ ” croaks the raven.

Vescailla turns to look at him, her eyebrows arching high and her lips pulling to the side in a perceptive smile. She shifts her weight to lean lazily against the table’s edge. “Oh, are we _finally_ on the same page? It’s about time.” When he looks at her, confused, she adds, “I knew before you even began to _suspect_ it.”

Jaskier’s back straightens, annoyance skittering up his spine. It’s the most energized he’s felt in days. The raven barks, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

The queen crosses her arms, but her body language remains otherwise languid. “There are certain lessons which are most effectively learned when left to play out as an example.”

Jaskier sets his jaw and glares. _Well._ He certainly won’t make the same mistake again.

Vescailla leans forward a bit, scrutinizing him. “What’s with that look? Do you wish to set him free?”

“It wouldn’t be right _not_ to.”

“Mmm. Let's set subjective morality aside for a moment. Consider instead that there will be consequences no matter _what_ you choose to do. You may have altered his destiny, but you have no way of knowing what fate you pulled him away from. It is possible you’ve saved him from something horrid. It’s also equally possible you stole him away from ecstasy.”

Jaskier takes a long moment to think. He begins to weigh the risks and tosses around the "goodness" or "badness" of his actions, but quickly gives up. Vescailla is right. It’s a pointless endeavor. There’s only one thing he knows for certain: He loves Geralt. But he doesn’t want to continue with a relationship if it isn’t genuine. There’s no way for him to know that for sure, he decides, unless...

"I need to let him go."

Vescailla stands from the table, showing no reaction to his decision. “If that is what you want, then rouse your weary bones and follow me. I will show you how to cut the thread of fate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Always Tired](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cwjY8Fudokw) by [Weathers](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC9C-PglnlYW83udKvznK47w)


	19. Chapter 19

In the days since the incident, Jaskier mostly kept to himself, flipping between self-loathing and numbness, and grappling incessantly with his new ability to mess with the heartstrings of others—and the decision of whether or not to act on it.

At first, he was sure of himself. _Of course_ he should cut the cord. But then he'd think about how it meant risking losing the witcher altogether. Jaskier is terrified of the possibility that _all_ of Geralt's fondness for him was never anything more than the result of his magic.

 _This isn't about me,_ he'd constantly remind himself. He couldn't keep Geralt spellbound and still tell himself he truly loved him—yes, he should definitely set him free—freeing him would be the kindest thing. 

_But, what if he snaps out of it and is furious? What if he_ never _forgives me? What if—what if he decides to finish what he'd started, with the leshen contract?_

Jaskier would argue in circles with himself for hours.

In the meantime, Geralt would often try to cheer him up. There would be attempts at dry humor. He would sometimes suggest things they could do, like a relaxed game of Gwent, or planting something in the greenhouse.

Most often, he would encourage the bard to play music—anything he felt like—he didn’t even have to sing. That always seemed to lift his spirits, Geralt would say. But Jaskier had neither the vigor nor motivation to do any of these things. What little energy he _did_ have was spent in tumultuous indecision.

Jaskier slept frequently. During the worst days, where he couldn't even muster the strength to leave his bed, Geralt would poke his head in the room every once in a while to check up on him. He would bring Jaskier warm food he swiped from the kitchen and, depending on how receptive Jaskier was feeling, would sometimes sit on the edge of his bed and recall fantastical monster-hunting tales from his earlier years of witchering—with a little more flair than Jaskier was used to seeing from him, perhaps in the hopes of inspiring him to write a ballad.

Geralt was trying. But it only made the faery feel worse, because, despite it all, he wasn’t getting better. He felt like a failure—like he was flunking the very _simple_ act of being alive.

  
  


Jaskier finds Geralt sleeping in the bedroom Vescailla had set aside for him. He enters quietly, stopping a few feet away from the bed where the witcher lays on his side, facing the wall.

The faery teeters one last time on the edge of decision, watching Geralt’s chest slowly rise and fall with a soft, appreciative gaze, momentarily caught up in his own bittersweet melancholy. He’ll be nostalgic about it all, someday. Even if, in the end, it was just a shadow of something real. 

Jaskier sets his jaw and reaches out to gently wake Geralt. They’re going for a walk.

  
  


“Why are we traipsing through the woods at the asscrack of dawn again?” Geralt yawns, hanging onto Roach’s bridle and letting the horse pull him along. “Could this not have at least waited until after breakfast?”

“No. It’s important,” says the raven from atop Roach’s saddle. The horse’s ears flick back to listen.

“Well, I’m glad you’re getting out of the castle. It’s been a while.”

Jaskier pulls his red, wool-lined jacket tighter around himself, bracing himself against both the biting cold and his creeping guilt. He keeps his eyes focused on his feet. It’s light enough out to see most of the details of the landscape. Frost covers the dead leaves blanketing the ground; Last night was calm and clear. The bard wasn’t aware, until that moment, that he could feel jealous of the weather.

He takes a right at a fork in the trail, heading towards the nursery.

Neither of them speak until Jaskier’s grove is visible through the younger trees. He hopes Geralt’s silence is only because he’s practically sleepwalking...following the bard like he is...despite being so sleepy and aching...in the freezing cold...blindly obedient.

The faery sighs inwardly. Geralt deserves his autonomy returned to him. Jaskier’s done nothing but cause him harm since they reunited.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Mmmn.”

“Why do you love me?” Jaskier turns towards him, walking backwards.

“What?” Geralt’s golden eyes open gently. He looks at the raven, and then at Jaskier. “That’s…a _stupid_ question,” he mumbles around another yawn.

“Why?” the bard snaps. His heel hits a rock; he stumbles and turns back around.

“ _Because_ , love isn’t…it’s never been a _logical_ thing. You’re a _poet_ …and half of your ballads are about love, sex and wine. Why are you even asking a question like that?…Is this about whether or not you _deserve_ it again?”

The faery glances over his shoulder, brow furrowed, taken aback, once more, by being so plainly read by the witcher.

Geralt’s posture rights itself a bit, the conversation beginning to rouse him, and he sighs and rubs his forehead with his free hand. “Jaskier, _why?_ ” It’s practically a whine. _“_ Why, for the love of all things sacred, are you constantly putting yourself down? You were doing this even before you went all Nilfgaardian on that village. I don’t understand. Why can’t you just accept that you are loved, that it doesn’t _have_ to be tied to any logic, and be at peace with that knowledge?”

Jaskier looks ahead, his hand lifting to grasp the agate necklace. He rubs his thumb over the smooth crystal, part of him wanting to find comfort in it, and part of him only taking guilt in its weight and the faith in him it represents. 

He thinks back to the tavern in Oxenfurt, where he’d sung for Geralt, wanting _so badly_ to open the witcher’s heart and draw him in.

He wonders if that’s the moment it happened.

“You think being an artist makes me somehow _immune_ to those kinds of doubts?” he says. “Funny…that kind of life only tempers that mindset. If what you create isn’t _good enough_ , then no one will care about you. No one will pay attention to you. No one will give you their time or money…and then you’ll starve to death in some alleyway, sad and alone and _hating_ yourself.”

“But…you _are_ good at what you do. Better than good—One of the best poets alive,” says Geralt.

“Only because I felt like I had no other choice. You’re either the best, or you’re nobody. I practiced and practiced so I would be given praise...but I can’t even take full credit for my talent anymore, now that I know what I truly am.” Jaskier listens to the raven speak for him with a bitter taste on his tied-up tongue. He lets his hand slip from the necklace. “That’s how love always worked for me...I _performed_ for it. Sure, I’ve had many passionate flings over the years. But they were all lust and brevity. Most only wanted to pry a song out of me. I started getting suspicious of people’s intentions...I can put on a convincing act. I can make myself appear open and social and carefree. But the truth is, I began guarding my heart long ago. I got tired of thinking I’d finally found someone who wouldn’t leave unless I kept _performing_ for them. But you...you were the first person in a long time that I dared allow myself to think was maybe...that you were...”

Jaskier swallows the rest of the sentence. He should’ve known better than to let himself believe that.

Geralt is silent, allowing him the space between the words.

Jaskier continues. “Wandering came naturally to me, because…home never felt like home. My father didn’t want me to use my gifts. I didn’t understand why at the time. I’m sure he thought it would make people suspicious of my blood. He cared for me, but even my twiggy seven year-old self could tell something was off, when I looked at my classmates’ parents and the way they interacted. It was like my father was always keeping me at arm’s length—like he never felt that I was his own. I guess I _wasn’t,_ really.”

“I understand that pain,” says Geralt. “Of feeling rejected by someone who was always supposed to be there, and not knowing why.”

“I know,” says the raven softly. Jaskier braces himself against the rising ache in his chest. He stares determinedly ahead. “So, there’s your answer to why I’d ask such a 'stupid' question. Because life taught me that love _has to be earned_ , and that you can be or do certain things to make you _unworthy_ of receiving it. I have checked every line on that list of forbidden things that make one unlovable—and even more have been hastily scribbled onto the bottom, because they were things I never dreamed I’d be capable of. And yet, here we are…Here _you_ are, in spite of everything.”

“ _Jaskier—_ ”

“ _Don’t,_ ” he balls his fists, “ _argue_ with me. I am a _monster_. Monsters don’t deserve _love_. They _deserve_ to have their heads lopped off and paraded around so everyone can laugh about how _strange_ a creature they had been and how glad they are to be finally rid of the vile thing.”

“Well, you _are_ strange, Jaskier. A walking contradiction."

Jaskier looks back at him, confused. His self-deprecating words never swayed Geralt. He can see it even now, in his eyes. But it defies logic. It isn’t right. It isn’t real.

The witcher goes on, “You think you have to earn your way into being loved, yet you’re _constantly_ falling in love with all manner of unassuming things, and you don’t think twice about it. Your heart is the most _unruly_ of anyone’s I’ve ever met—and I’ve had a _long-ass_ life.” He chuckles softly to himself. “Honestly? I’m shocked you haven’t yet wandered off the trail to gush over some random little mushroom you spotted.” Jaskier’s shoulders hunch. Geralt adds, his words tainted with an air of self-satisfaction, “What did those wild violets at the cave entrance do, I wonder, to ‘earn’ your love? You are miles away, and you haven’t seen them in weeks. But you still love them, don’t you?”

The bard doesn’t give him the gratification of a response. They both knew the answer, anyway.

His feet come to a rest at the nursery’s edge. He stands, for a moment, looking out into the rest of the woods, into the vast and unknown world outside of his little grove.

He stiffens when the witcher rests his forehead between his shoulder blades, nestled among the innermost feathers of his wings.

Geralt yawns again, leaning heavily against him, and then he says, “ _Real_ love is not a debt owed, a reward given, or a favor repaid.” The words are light and matter-of-fact, like it was the most _obvious_ thing. “I love you, Jaskier, and it might not make a lick of sense to you. But love doesn’t care if you accept it or not. It remains in spite of you, and you can’t do shit about it.”

 _Yes I can._ Jaskier’s smokey breath fountains out from between his lips in a quiet sigh. He feels, quite suddenly, like he was developing an allergy to the air around him—the atmosphere of Geralt’s steady, irrational love making his skin itch.

He turns around slowly, giving the witcher enough warning that he doesn’t lose his balance and fall forward. In the same movement, he slides a hand up the side of Geralt’s face, cradling it, rubbing his thumb along his cheekbone, and under the bags beneath his eyes. So many sleepless nights—still more pain, caused by him. The bard stares dejectedly, his legs beginning to feel weak with the knowledge of what came next.

The witcher looks back, soft and unsuspecting. “What?” he says, placing a calloused hand over his. “Is something wrong?”

Jaskier doesn’t answer. He pulls his hand out of Geralt’s and slips it behind his head instead. Then, he purses his lips and breathes gently onto his forehead, blowing the witcher’s consciousness out like a candle. Geralt falls, and the faery catches him and lowers him to the ground. He digs Stregobor’s amulet out of his pocket and loops it over Geralt’s head, tugging it snugly down around his neck. He presses his palm against the septagram on his breastbone, an aching wave rolling over him, wanting nothing more than to _brand_ the witcher with its power. But he couldn’t— _wouldn’t_.

Geralt would be free to rid himself of the cursed object if he wanted to; cast it into a fire somewhere, perhaps. Jaskier knows deep in his heart, even if the witcher woke up feeling angry and betrayed about being claimed, the man had honor; He wouldn’t let the amulet fall into the wrong hands. 

Jaskier leaves it to rest beside the wolf head medallion, then sits back and takes a deep breath. It’s time.

He makes use of what the queen had taught him, searching his soul for life in a way similar to when he searches the wilds for the web of roots below his feet. His awareness closes in on his heart, and then on a thin, reddish, threadlike energy that links it to the witcher’s. The string hangs between them, glistening like silk, and is snaked around their ribs, having created a home there over the years, like ivy growing up a fence.

Leaning over Geralt, Jaskier lifts his hand gently between them, pooling a bit of the thread in his palm. It pulses like their hearts; Geralt’s so inhumanly slow and steady, and his own fluttering like a bird’s. The bard shuts his eyes. He grasps the thread tightly between his fingers and lifts it to his mouth, holding it taut. In a single, swift move, he cuts it on a fang. It snaps with a sound like a dry twig.

An inverted gasp overtakes him, as all of the air escapes his lungs momentarily. He bends low with the sudden pressure that _rushes_ out of his chest, like an overflowing sack of grain someone took a dagger to. He is left staring down at the witcher’s face, their noses inches apart, and is forced to sit with that awful gaping sensation. Hollow. Weak. _Wanting._

Fingers trembling, he lightly caresses Geralt’s cheeks with both hands, trying to remember the feeling of being able to hold him. _Forgive me,_ he mouths the words, and wills the witcher back to the human side of the veil. He'll wait for Geralt’s answer and will accept it if his question— _Is this real? Are_ we _real?_ —is met with cold silence.

What was meant to be, would be. 

He stands shakily and leaves the witcher with his horse, retreating back into the mists of the orchard, raven in tow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Shake](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mkQn5rF12RY) by [The Head and the Heart](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCC9TsJPWWkXLLY5kJdiQPtg)


	20. Chapter 20

Geralt polishes off the last of his drink and sets his mug on the table with a hollow sound.

Gors Velen reeks of fish and wet salt. He normally isn’t a fan of cities, yet he’d ridden Roach for hours to reach this tavern. All the noise, the movement, and the _godawful_ smells of the seaside town made for an effective distraction from what’s turning out to be a thick blend of confusion, accompanied by the sharp, familiar sting of rejection.

Cats flattened their ears, puffed up their fur and hissed at Geralt as he passed through the marketplace on his way to the tavern. They never got along, he and felines, but it didn’t make him believe any less like he made for unpleasant company.

He’d awoken feeling like a tattered doll—like his chest had been ripped open and his stuffing all torn out.

Jaskier abandoned him; dragged him out into the middle of the woods and left him alone in the cold. It was a predictably dramaturgical thing for the poet to have done, but it still caught Geralt off-guard. Disappointment, cold and heavy, drapes itself over his shoulders.

He’d trusted Jaskier.

Geralt’s first instinct upon waking was to head straight back into the orchard, pulled towards the faery’s earthy-sweet scent, fully inclined to keep following blindly like the dog he’d been branded as. But something made him stop.

Something he’s realizing he’d been _curiously_ missing, as of late.

As if a lever had been flipped, there was suddenly this extra dimension of self-awareness there. It gave him enough pause to ask himself _what_ , exactly, he was doing, and why— _why,_ by the gods, was he allowing the bard so much power over him?

The possibility that he hadn’t been “allowing” anything lingers in the back of his mind. As much as the thought makes him uncomfortable, he decides to humor it.

Jaskier’s powers, and the extent of them, are still somewhat of a mystery to Geralt. He wouldn’t put it past the faery to be able to influence the thoughts of others, similarly to his own Axii sign. If a witcher can perform a low-level version of mind magic, why not the fae?

Geralt isn’t sure when he might’ve fallen victim. He has a few theories. The principal one involving a _particularly_ enchanting musical performance as far back as Oxenfurt. But, Jaskier wouldn’t have done something like that on purpose.

...Would he?

Geralt thinks, and the more he mulls over his theory—and it is just a _theory_ , he has to remind himself—the more he wonders if the faery would have even known what he was doing. If there is— _was—_ a spell, it had to have been an accident. Jaskier _couldn’t_ have known about his magic before Ren spirited him away all those years ago.

That is, unless the spell was actually cast _after_ they’d reunited.

 _Shit._ Geralt sighs and stares down at his empty drink. He tiredly waves at a wench for a refill. The woman takes one look at him and leaves a whole jug on the table. He pours himself a glass and empties half of it in one go.

 _Something_ happened to him. That much he is certain of. Something was there before, which isn’t any longer. He feels _distinctly_ different now than he had before waking up in the woods alone, both physically and emotionally. Whatever Jaskier cast—or _uncast_ —on Geralt before leaving, it stands to reason he must have done it intentionally. 

Geralt wonders when the faery realized the extent of his abilities. Could it have been in the cave, after rescuing him? In the throne room arguing with the monarchs over letting him stay? Maybe when they’d gone to fetch the arbheal?

No. Geralt clearly remembers seeing something change in Jaskier’s eyes when they spoke in the woods after his rampage. The faery called the witcher a dog, and then smiled like he’d been handed a new toy he intended to _break_.

That was the moment Jaskier stopped trying to chase Geralt away. Instead, he not only drew the witcher in and made him bleed, but also seemed to _revel_ in the power to do so. And Geralt just stood there and _took_ the abuse, despite the fact that, looking back, he should’ve pinned the faery’s sorry ass to the ground well before that.

It was _definitely_ , _absolutely_ , _entirely_ due to some kind of magic influence, and not because some part of him was into it.

Geralt’s train of thought instantly switches tracks, circling back to consider that maybe he _had_ made those choices on his own. It’s plausible. He’s done plenty of stupid, illogical, sometimes _masochistic_ things out of love before.

He covers his face with his hands as heat begins to gather in his cheeks. That bard is going to be the death of him. He knew it as soon as he jumped in front of a griffin’s claws for the idiot.

Regardless of the truth, Jaskier still walked away without warning or explanation.

Maybe Geralt is overthinking things. This could simply be a break-up, albeit a poorly executed one.

The witcher sighs and downs the other half of his drink, deciding his magic theory would be the more favorable of the two possibilities—it meant he wasn’t necessarily _losing_ Jaskier. But, as much as he hates to admit it, Geralt knows the explanation to a mystery is typically the most simple one. 

In spite of Jaskier’s passion and enthusiasm and theatrical tendencies—though he can scarcely consider it possible—perhaps _Geralt_ is the overbearing one.

His thoughts begin to race, trying to figure out where he may have gone wrong. Had he managed to make Jaskier feel overwhelmed? Tried to take things too quickly? Pushed him past his comfort zone? Was their early morning chat some kind of breaking point for the faery?

Since they’d been reunited, Jaskier hasn’t seemed comfortable with accepting the full extent of Geralt’s love for him. That’s fine; Jaskier can take as much as he wants at any moment. The problem comes when he clearly wants more than he’s actually accepting. He won’t _allow_ himself any more. Geralt has no doubt this is due to some arbitrary rules the faery created for himself.

Jaskier constantly vacillates between feeling like he deserves _some_ love—but curiously, never all of it—and like he doesn’t deserve _any at all._ It’s as if his worth as a person can be taken on and off like a pair of boots, and this shift can occur for the slightest of reasons.

It’s a _damn_ shame, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult for Geralt to keep up with the emotional whiplash the faery subjects himself to.

If Geralt’s talk with him earlier today made one thing painfully clear, it’s that Jaskier’s _always_ been this way. If Ren never crossed their path, and the pair of them continued to travel together as they had been, those self-worth issues would have made themselves known eventually.

It just so happens that Jaskier finding out he isn’t human, being forced to become a fighter, and coming face-to-face with some of the uglier parts of himself, only _exacerbated_ his insecurities and brought them to the surface quicker.

Something settled itself inside the faery this morning which lead him to do what he’d done. For better or worse, Jaskier is creating space between them. And if that’s what the faery wants, Geralt isn’t going to go chasing after him.

One piece of evidence bites holes into this conclusion, however. Not long after waking, Geralt discovered the fae-revealing pendant around his neck, shining gold beside his silver wolf.

Jaskier gave the witcher a way to find him.

“What do you _want_ from me?” Geralt groans softly into his hands.

Jaskier is _maddeningly_ complex. He’s the type of person you could observe from across a room for a short while and easily come to the conclusion that you knew everything there is to know about him; That he wears his heart on his sleeve, and that when he looks at you, you know _exactly_ how he feels.

But the closer Geralt gets to him, the more the poet seems to unfold: an unassuming bud opening into a mesmerizing rose, with _layers upon layers_ of petals.

Even now, miles away, he’s _still_ unfolding.

“Did you hear about the new monster that showed up in the forest a few days ago?”

The word ‘monster’ catches the witcher’s ear. He climbs out of his head and listens intently.

“I’ve heard only passing mentions.”

“Well, it’s got razor sharp fangs, wings black as pitch, and a roar two-toned like _a devil_.”

The second man waves a hand. “Bah. Sounds like a siren just got blown inland by a storm.”

“Nay, s’no siren! They’re sayin’ it’s eyes glow like lightning! That it can make the _trees_ come alive. It can call up thunder, spark fires—it can even convince dogs to turn on their own masters! You ever heard of a bloody siren doing those things?”

“Guess not.”

A wench comes by their table with food. She says, “ _I_ heard the creature levelled the _whole village_ with a single swipe of its arm. No survivors ‘cept the children and the alderman. He’s been talking the mayor’s ear off about it.”

The man being served pipes up, leaning over the table and banging his fist against it. “They’re also sayin’ it’s got these antlers like a deer in the rut, and that the tines are sharp as a dragon’s tooth and can gore you to death just from _lookin’_ at ‘em too long.”

People from all over the tavern join in on the conversation. 

“Maybe it’s one a’them eerie wives from Brokilon?”

“Impossible. Those savages don’t got antlers.”

“ _Must_ be a devil, then!” 

“Fools! Devils got goat horns, not antlers.”

“Who cares ‘bout the antlers! _I_ heard it steals away children! Switches ‘em out for dopplers and eats the real one! _I_ bet you some of those kids saved from that village are changelings!”

A few people gasp and lean back in their chairs. The wench fans herself with her free hand. Geralt rolls his eyes.

“No matter what it is,” a new voice bellows. The burly man it belongs to stands and looks out over all the heads. “No matter what you call it, we should implore that Mayor Gervyck take care of it. First it’s the little outskirt villages, then it’ll be the city farms, and what next? S’gotta be gotten rid of, ‘fore it comes after us and ours!”

“Agreed! They should hang its head above the southeast gate!”

Geralt decides it’s time to leave before he’s asked to soil his hands on his idiot-lover-turned-town-boogeyman. He stands calmly, so as not to draw attention, and traces the edge of the room.

“Oi! Witcher!” the standing man barks at him right as he reaches the entryway. “You were _there_ when it attacked, weren’t you? Tell us ‘bout the hellspawn. Which rumors are true?”

Geralt stops. The corner of his mouth twitches. “Didn’t get a great look at it. Sorry.” He reaches for the door handle, but a strong arm falls across his path. Geralt locks eyes with the man, their faces feet apart.

“That’s not what the alderman says,” the man’s voice is low. “In fact, he’s got the mayor’s boys lookin’ for you. Says you got in the way of the mage they hired. Says you watched the massacre happen and didn’t lift a finger to stop the wretched beast.”

“I don’t want any trouble,” Geralt keeps his voice even, stepping back from the door and lifting his hands innocently.

“Is it ‘cause they didn’t offer to _pay_ you first?” The man steps towards him, re-closing the gap. His hand drops to rest on top of an axe hanging off his hip. A few other men rise slowly from their seats. 

One of the wenches slips out the front door behind the man’s back. The man, hearing the door close, smiles pleasantly at Geralt. “Do you feel anything right now, witcher? Fear, perhaps? Are you capable of it?”

“Wouldn’t _you_ like to know,” Geralt smiles nastily. He wiggles his fingers in a quick, discreet sign, coating the man’s mind with Axii. “I’m not in the mood for conflict. Would you mind stepping aside? I’m in a hurry.”

The man blinks a few times and removes himself from Geralt’s path. “Right. My…ah, my apologies,” he mumbles, rubbing his forehead, brow creased in confusion.

Geralt quickly slips out the door. He doesn’t make it two steps before he is wrestled to the ground by several guards. The wench stands off to the side, watching with a slight wince.

The guards are silent, refusing to give any explanations and spitting at his feet when he tries to demand one. Geralt is forcibly stripped of his things and thrown into a jail cell.

He sits tiredly against the walls and waits for a long while in the echoing stillness. What else can he do? He eventually slips into a meditation until he loses track of time.

Then, a voice stirs him.

“You’re probably wondering why you’re in here.”

Geralt opens his eyes and sees a face he doesn’t recognize through the bars. He guesses, based on the nice clothes and lofty attitude, that this is the mayor. Geralt does not respond.

“It strikes me as vile,” the mayor says, lifting his chin, “to watch a settlement flayed alive and not help, despite being fully capable of it. This is especially true when said settlement is part of our district. For reasons beyond my understanding, you went as far as to draw your sword, but only stood there like a useless sack of oats, allowing the creature to escape!”

Geralt remains silent. His eyes drop to his bare feet. This cell is fucking freezing. They could’ve at least allowed him his boots.

“I cannot apprehend you for being a bystander,” the mayor goes on. “I can, however, put you away for interfering with justice—hindering Stregobor’s progress.”

“Justice?” Geralt gives a bitter little laugh and sneers at the stone floor. “Is _that_ what you call hiring a mage to wipe out an entire species?”

“And why not? They’re troublemakers, these forest devils. I hear they’ve killed livestock, stolen children away, caused crops to wilt…”

“Not a _single_ word of that is accurate.”

“How are _you_ so sure?”

Geralt doesn’t answer right away. “I’m a witcher. If I can’t sort truth from rumor about a monster, nobody can.”

The mayor folds his hands neatly behind his back. “Well, the trivialities are no matter. _I_ , unlike you, have the capability to feel _mercy_. You will not hang for this, but you will sit here and fester for a good long while and think about your poor choices.”

Geralt glances up at the man, baring his teeth in a poorly-faked gentlemanly smile. “And how long will that be?”

“Until the crowfoot are in bloom.”

 _Crowfoot?_ The witcher sighs out his nose and looks away. The plowin' buttercups won’t flower until late spring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Other inspiration:  
> [Yes I'm Cold](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OuXOfq-wqg0) by [Chris Bathgate](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCeehmq5TatnRw3Gr-I8GfTQ)  
>   
> [Hands](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ft4c4J73RBY) by [Barns Courtney](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCOQhQVN8GaYU2VpuKFUIwhg)  
>   
> [Boogeyman](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lnrUE1phl0w) by [Black Casino and the Ghost](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCePtX_afTr79oVX5pxcS_gw)


	21. Chapter 21

Faery graves aren’t marked. Their dead are draped in a simple cloth, returned to the ground and left in peace, to be visited only by those who know where they rest.

Jaskier sits beside one such unassuming patch of earth, on the edge of the meadow where the wild horses roam. He has his knees drawn against his chest and his head buried in his arms. He rocks a little, gently and absentmindedly, trying to dispel the lingering anxiety that keeps his body buzzing hours after he’d cut the heartstring. The emptiness between his ribs tells him he’d made a mistake. But his logic says he didn’t; That this is what’s best for Geralt and him. He isn’t sure which to believe.

Jaskier stills himself and rests his cheek against his arm. He stares at the daisy laying on the bare soil, which he’d cut from plants growing in the year-round warmth of the castle’s greenhouse.

He wishes he could talk to Ren—he _did_ , often, in his mind, but it was a painfully one-sided affair.

The raven watches from a bare branch above him. It’s always looming nearby, no matter where the poet went. _You know,_ it says, _a nap would do you good, Jaskier._

The poet sighs. Intrusive as the creature is, it’s never led him astray with its advice. His heart, his body, his _soul_ ; all of them exhausted. Maybe, if he falls asleep and somehow runs into that badger again, he’ll tell it to fuck off and let him stay.

He stands and trudges towards the castle.

  
  


The sprite sits by what used to be the bonfire, now just a pile of glowing charcoal, with the shocking white of a daisy perched above her ear. The animals are gone. It’s quiet. Jaskier approaches slowly and sits beside her.

She doesn’t look at him, only stares into the ashes with those ghostly, washed-out eyes. They’re crinkled with some kind of worry. Jaskier frowns, having expected her to at least be happy to see him. The doubt snakes into his belly, that she’d seen everything. That she somehow knew what was in his head. That she finally gave up on him.

“Hey,” he gently greets.

“Hey,” Ren murmurs, sounding a little distant. He’d missed her voice.

“How are you?” 

“The same.” A pause. “What brings you back here?”

Jaskier doesn’t know how to answer. When he fell asleep and followed the raven into this liminal dream world, he wasn’t expecting _this_. He rubs his face tiredly, wondering if being here is another mistake—if he’s selfishly interrupting her...her peace? And there are so many little things he wants to say, all vying for a place on his tongue. He struggles to assign priority to them.

He says, “I guess I’m just…I’m lonely, and I _miss_ you, and I’m feeling _lost_ , and broken, and I’m not sure where to go from here—or-or if there’s a point to going anywhere at all—”

_Is this even real...?_

“Well, I wouldn’t think too hard about that.” Ren pokes at the glowing embers with a stick. “You are alive. There’s simply no way _not_ to go anywhere.”

“That’s the thing...I’m _terrified_ of making the wrong move—they’re the only ones I ever seem to make these days. When I think about the future, all I can picture is pain and ruin. I see myself losing the fight against my passionate, _selfish_ heart and the wild magic that feeds off of it…I don’t want to hurt anybody else.”

“Then don’t.” She shrugs lightly.

“But, Vescailla—”

“Is a constant pressure to indulge in your ferocity. I know.”

Jaskier curls into himself; his hands slide up his cheeks and through his hair, running up against the burs of his antlers. He says, “Sometimes I feel like I never stood a chance. I mean, she claimed me when I was just a baby...Tangled me in her web...Named me after some _poisonous_ flower...” He balls himself up even tighter, fingers grazing the back of his neck, feeling small and powerless. “Was I _destined_ to become a nightmare? Wouldn’t it be better to nip an ill-fated flower in the bud before it opens any further?”

As he speaks, Ren sets the stick to the side. Her palms rub slow circles up her legs, as if trying to massage the feeling back into them. “I don’t like where this is going, Jas."

He turns his head, peeking around his forearm to look at her sadly. She’s still watching the red heat. She bends forward, leaning her elbows on her knees and lacing her fingers tightly together, and says, “Do you truly hate who you are _so much_ that you’d rather give up? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

He doesn’t answer; He isn’t sure.

Finally, she looks at him. He looks away, finding the pale gaze unsettling and missing their old spring-green.

Ren says softly, “It’s my fault, isn’t it?”

Jaskier's brow furrows. The suggestion takes him by surprise, and leaves him grappling with the dissonant feeling that comes with denial. She's one of the brightest parts of his life. Or, _was_... _is_. He doesn’t want to believe that she may have had a hand in his current mindset. He sighs and leans his cheek against his inner arm.

“It’s…a lot of things,” he mumbles into his sleeve.

Ren shakes her head and returns her gaze to the glowing embers. “I’ve had a lot of time to reflect, since…you know…and found I have a number of regrets when it comes to you. For example, I was always talking down about skrull culture, about how glad I was that I wasn’t born one...it occurred to me that I said all that to a _skrull_. I mean, that was…I’m sorry. I wasn't thinking.” She hunches her shoulders and hugs her arms, wincing. “I admit, I was prejudiced against your species. I watched so much blood spilt in _unnecessary_ conflicts for decades.” She pauses. “Vescailla and I argued a lot. We could never agree on anything. I began to lose hope that things would ever change. Then, you came along, and...to put it frankly, you were a blank slate. I wanted to help nudge you in the ‘right’ direction—wanted to feel like I had some _control_ over our future…But I ended up instilling all these little insecurities in you instead.”

She digs the heels of her palms into her eyes, her fingers tightly curled in frustration. Jaskier can see the tips of her fangs poke out from between her blue-tinted lips. She adds, “That was thoughtless and selfish. I didn't mean to...I would never hurt you _on purpose_ —”

“I know.”

"But, even if I didn't mean to, I _still_ hurt you, and I'm sorry. You've every right to be mad at me."

Jaskier isn’t...well, he isn’t _mad_. He's not sure _what_ exactly he's feeling, other than deep fatigue and the ever-present, ever-growing weight of responsibility. He barely feels he has the strength to get a handle on his own life, let alone manage the lives of his entire species.

He curls further into himself, beginning to feel overwhelmed at the thought of it all, and wanting to hide from the world; Wanting to step off of this inevitable track towards disaster while he still can.

They’re quiet, for a moment. Ren’s eventual words are slow and careful. “I know you feel out of control, and that can make you feel scared and helpless. I know fighting yourself is exhausting, because there's nowhere to run. But, Vescailla? You have to realize you're not her helpless puppet. You never were.”

“But…she claimed me. Isn’t she laying my path? Isn’t she the only one who can cut that cord?”

Ren hums knowingly, her tone regaining some of the fire he missed so dearly. She leans to the side, pressing their shoulders together. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. Fate, destiny— _whatever_ you want to call it—doesn’t hold the power you think. Sure, it will repeatedly direct you towards one path or another. Sometimes it’s a poke and sometimes it’s a shove. But in the end, you are the one at the reins. _You_ have the final say.”

Another silence. Jaskier tosses her words around a bit, wondering if they could be true. Fate, it seemed, had had him in its grip for years. It led him to cross paths with Ren so he could be brought to Vescailla; a long-awaited promise from the universe fulfilled. It must have been Fate that beckoned him to the woods his entire life.

But, he’d _resisted_ that call for _decades_. That proves it _is_ possible to go against it. Even so, destiny still found a way to win in the end, didn’t it? It sent him a witcher, who he’d fallen so _deeply_ in love with that he was willing to follow him to the ends of the continent; even into the forest he’d feared for so long.

Like a starved crow presented with an unguarded nest of eggs, the temptation posed by unconditional love was too great _not_ to act on.

But Jaskier cut the string tethering them together. That was an act of defiance. Here he is, wrestling back control, even though it _hurt like hell_. Now, it’s the universe’s turn to move.

Jaskier sighs deeply and wonders if it's worth continuing to struggle against such a pervasive force. It would certainly be easier to give in. Paddling upstream is a workout, and he's nearly out of steam.

What kind of future is he even fighting for? He hasn’t even thought about it. All he knows is that the evidence seems to point to destiny wanting to turn him into a bloodthirsty demon king—and he _doesn't want that_.

Anything, but that.

It’s a start.

“Do you still believe I’m good?” he asks.

Ren smiles softly. “I’m not going to answer that.”

“Why?”

“Because you can’t keep _relying_ on me to feel positively about yourself. You have to learn to believe in your own goodness.”

“I don’t know what to believe. I have blood on my hands. How could I ever be good?”

“Do you believe that Geralt is good?”

“Yes,” he says, without hesitation. A heartbeat later, he realizes why she asked the question. Geralt had _lots_ of blood on his hands. Monster and human.

But it’s not the blood of innocents.

“I think it’s best I stay here,” he says. It’s flat. Conclusive. Final. 

“No.” Ren swiftly stands. “Don’t _insult_ me like that.”

“Huh?” He blinks up at her. 

She faces him, baring her teeth in a little snarl. “Jaskier, look at who you’re speaking with. I am _dead_. I am _stuck_. I am unable to _grow_ or _change_...To see you sitting here _pulsing_ with so much life force and magic and _raw_ potential, and wanting to simply throw that all away…” She throws out her hands, fingers curling like bird talons, miming a choke-hold. “It makes me wanna _strangle_ you.”

She closes the space between them. “Get up,” she sighs, grabbing his arm and yanking him to a stand. “I was hoping you’d figure it out on your own, but I guess I’ve gotta spell it out for you.” She presses a finger into his breastbone. “You think you have all this potential for destruction, but have yet to realize you have an equal amount of potential for the opposite.”

He stiffens under her expectant glare, mind blank with surprise. His silence apparently frustrating her, she gently shakes his shoulders.

“ _Creation_ , Jaskier! _That_ is your natural inclination! Think about it, _famous poet_. _Lauded artist. Siren singer_. How is this not obvious to you?”

She pauses. Jaskier guesses if she were alive, she’d need to catch her breath. But she only stares at him, imploring, her chest neither rising nor falling. He doesn’t know what to say. Eventually, Ren’s expression softens into that _achingly_ familiar, daring look.

She says, “If you can paint yourself into a corner, then by that logic you can also draw yourself a _door_. Don’t like who you are in the present moment? Work towards something new! That’s the beauty of _being alive_. Life is never static. Temper that feral heart of yours rather than letting it sweep you up in all its drama. Learn to ride that emotional wave instead and come out on top of it. Good, bad; All things are _temporary_.” She spins him by his shoulders towards the path he walked in on and gives him a little push. “Now get the hell out of here.”

“What?” he yelps, turning back to face her. “I—”

“Stop it. I see that look. This isn’t destiny speaking, Jas. This is me. If not for yourself, then do this for _me_...Please, all I want is to see you thrive.”

He wilts, doubtful he’ll succeed in that. She pulls him into a tight hug. “I love you,” she says firmly. “I love talking with you. I love seeing your dumb face. But _you don’t belong here_.”

She pulls away, giving him a fond smile; a smile that still held so much faith in him.

Jaskier gives her a little nod; a silent ‘I will try,’ and then looks back towards the trail. The raven is waiting in a branch above it.

The bird has yet to lead him astray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Get Up](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AHuHk37Db9Y) by [Mother Mother](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCDRSqDdkk3tVNHaxyfOqALg)
> 
> [The Quittin' Kind](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BHcImdzIbsY) by [Eleisha Eagle](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCLl9fy5EJu7r5I-N5BeCVHw)  
> 


	22. Chapter 22

He notices the light reflecting off the ceiling of his bedroom first. Just a few tiny, bright specks, barely larger than pebbles, each moving independently of one another. Jaskier sits up, shoving the warmth of his thick blanket off. He rolls himself up onto his knees and turns so he can peek out the window above his pillow, overlooking the expanse of forest at the foot of their mountain home.

The meadow where the wild horses graze appears small from this distance, enough that he can squish it between his fingers. He can make out a platoon of sprites emerging from the shelter of the trees onto the grassy expanse.

Jaskier squints; It’s hard to make out details, but he can see the glint of their bronze armor in the sun—reaching all the way to his room—and their soft, light-colored wings which seem to glow against the dead, brownish background of winter.

Finding the sight concerning, he leaps out of the creaking bed to walk swiftly through the halls. He searches for Vescailla. The raven swoops down from a chandelier and follows. He can smell the unmistakable oil of lavender first, and trails it to the greenhouse, knowing the queen typically spent her winter mornings there, preferring to make her teas from fresh ingredients. He finds her bent over and taking cuttings from a raised bed against the far wall. Jaskier doesn’t bother to enter the space—warm, humid and inviting though it was—opting to hang onto the door frame instead. 

“What’s Asper up to?” the raven blurts, soaring in above Jaskier’s head and landing on a table filled with potted herbs. “I saw units in the meadow. Are we under attack?”

Vescailla calmly continues her work without so much as glancing back at him. “Oh, it’s nothing so dramatic. Asper has become _obsessed_ with tracking down a dragon. He hopes to employ it, so he won’t lose anyone else to iron…You know how upset he is about Ren. He seeks to make us invulnerable. Wasted time and energy, if you ask me.”

“Why? Sounds like a fine idea.”

“It’s a fool’s errand. The dragons won’t bow to his will. They do not care about us. They are too proud, too ancient, too powerful. They are the only other creatures in this world that I view as equal in strength to myself. I already tried to change Asper’s mind, but he is bull-headed and young, barely over two-hundred years of age. It makes for a terribly imprudent combination.”

“At least he’s doing something.”

Vescailla straightens and turns to face him slowly, an eyebrow cocked in a curious expression _begging_ him to continue his _lecture_. Her fingers are curled tightly around a thick bundle of the fragrant purple flowers. Sharp floral scissors are held blades-open in the other.

Jaskier steps inside the greenhouse, unafraid, saying, “Tensions are rising because we keep butting heads. The humans hired a mage to eradicate us. They’re gradually figuring out where we live, what our weaknesses are. They managed to obtain an amulet that can yank us across the veil! What if there are more like it? Aren’t you worried?”

“Humans only crept further into our lands because I’ve _allowed_ them to. I yield and I yield, but they're never satisfied.” Vescailla walks to a potting bench and ties the lavender bundle with twine, pulling the knot tight with the same swift deliberateness one might use when snapping a small animal’s neck. “Let them march here with their paltry blades and trebuchets. I could have every one of them choking on roots and wolf teeth with a snap of my fingers.”

The raven’s claws click against the wood as it makes its way to the edge of the bench and stares up at her. “So, your plan is to do nothing?”

“There is no plan,” she says simply, and hangs the bundle on a drying rack above the ever-burning hearth that kept the greenhouse warm. “I know my own strength. I act when the present moment demands it. If they’re smart, they won’t return to these woods…I think you sent them a clear warning all on your own. They killed your friend, and you enacted revenge _deliciously_. I’m proud of you.”

Jaskier leans back against the door frame and crosses his arms, an uncomfortable mix of emotions mingling in his gut, each shoving the other aside like oil and water.

 _Of course she’s proud,_ he sighs inwardly. It's a rare compliment from her, and even though he usually tells himself he doesn’t much care what she thinks, the words still fill him with satisfaction—with that soul-nourishing _validation_ he misses from his days living as a traveling bard. It’s all he used to want: somebody to applaud his performance. To tell him he mattered.

He takes a moment to drink it in; that temporary, conditional love that felt so _familiar_ to him—and that he could readily accept because it felt so normal. Not like the way Geralt made him feel.

He asks, “Have you ever thought about meeting with the humans as your true self? Rather than as a whispering shadow, a whirlwind of debris or a skeletal puppet? Most humans have never even heard the word ‘Fae.’ All they know is there’s something ominous in the woods that doesn’t want them there.” The queen doesn’t answer him; only returns to cutting more flowers. The raven watches her with a cocked head, adding, “Humans are typically hostile towards the unknown. You know this, don’t you? You were ‘human’ once, too.”

“That was a long time ago,” Vescailla says, bitterly. “That part of my life has been long lost to oblivion. And good riddance to it.”

Jaskier stands from the wall, throwing out his hands, miming his own detached words. “That’s fair. But I remember _my_ time as a ‘human,’ and I theorize they wouldn’t be so hostile towards us if only they understood us better. What do you think? Maybe a good first step to solving this peacefully is simply to be more honest and upfront with them.”

Vescailla turns and stalks up to him, wings half-spread. Jaskier stiffens and steps back. “Absolutely not,” she barks. “I _forbid_ you from revealing any information to them about us. Knowing what we look like will only make it easier for them to figure out where to strike. You’re lucky you were able to take out every human who witnessed your true form back at that settlement.”

She looms over him, bearing down with her authoritative energy. Jaskier bites his tongue. The rampage was a blur. He isn’t _actually_ sure there weren’t any survivors who saw him without his disguise. But he isn’t about to tell her that.

Vescailla’s tone becomes darker. “Listen carefully, because I loathe having to repeat myself. _Never_ go into a fight like that again, without your veil cloak or glamour up. Know the power you yield, but don’t you _dare_ become cocky about it. Humans may be short-lived and easy to frighten, but they are great in number, they are wickedly clever and they are not to be trusted. The more they understand about the fae, the more vulnerable we make ourselves.”

“But—” the raven stutters from somewhere behind them.

“No buts! Do not argue with me, child. The humans understand their _pigs_ plenty well, too.” Vescailla straightens herself, giving the prince some space, but continues, “A pig might feel secure in its relationship with the humans. It minds its own business in its pen; they feed it. But then, one day, out of nowhere, it is lead to _slaughter._ It was nothing the _pig_ ever did. The humans simply never viewed it as anything more significant than a meal on four legs. That is all a pig will _ever_ be, because that is simply how humans view the world, as something separate from themselves to be used as a tool, to be harvested or otherwise modified to suit their needs. And _we_ , being neither food, nor tools for them, become nothing but weeds destined to be plucked from the land one by one until it is purified to their standards. Do you understand?”

Silence. Jaskier has no argument, other than the simple knowledge that continuing to do what they’ve always done will only lead to repeated conflicts—to the same self-perpetuating hatred and spilt blood that Ren agonized over. Something _has_ to change. He just…doesn’t know how to go about it yet. If anything, he's now _more_ unsure than before.

Vescailla frowns at him, looking sympathetic. He notices her rubbing her fingers anxiously down at her sides. “And what of your witcher? Is he still sleeping, so late into the morning?”

Jaskier’s shoulders hunch, feeling guilty of the answer, but unsure of why. She’s the one who taught him how to play the heartstrings, after all. “He’s gone,” he says timidly. “I cut the thread…I let him go.”

“What do you _mean_ , you ‘let him go?’ Go _where?_ Tell me he didn't return to the humans?”

Jaskier blinks, confused. “I’m not sure where he went. I left him to do as he pleases. Isn’t that the whole point of setting him free?”

“No! You should’ve kept him here, under observation until you knew how he’d react. You fool! He knows far too much about us and could easily give that vital information away.” She pinches the bridge of her nose and takes a deep breath. “Gaia give me strength…”

“He wouldn’t endanger us like that. I trust him,” Jaskier says quickly. He dare not mention the amulet, for fear the queen would strangle him on the spot.

“You trusted him with your _voice_ , too. Look what happened.”

Jaskier’s mouth falls slightly open, wanting to snap back, but finds he can’t think of a proper response. It's true. Geralt broke the deal. He failed the contract. No matter what the reason for it, the bitter fact remains. 

“ _Go get him_ ,” Vescailla growls.

He becomes tense, his entire frame rejecting the idea. Approaching Geralt first would ruin the whole point of letting him go, and it would make all the pain he’d gone through meaningless. The witcher _must_ return to his side through his own free will. Jaskier will never feel completely comfortable with their relationship unless it happens naturally.

His voice wavers, but he forces the word out: “ _No_.”

"Excuse me?" The queen bends forward, fangs bared. Her irises begin to glow, flickering with an otherwordly blueish-purple color. The anger rises sharply in Jaskier as well, and he squares up to her, his own eyes shining electric-blue, reflecting her’s in strength. Their antlers rub against one another’s.

As if reacting to the hollow clattering sound of bone against bone, the raven flies from the table and lands on Jaskier’s shoulder. It’s claws dig into his skin as it leans far forward and loudly caws in the queen’s face. Vescailla leans away, looking stunned and a little betrayed.

For a moment, she and the bird are silent, staring into each other’s eyes. Jaskier watches curiously. Whatever exchange occurs between them is private—which is an odd thing to witness, because his mental connection to the raven is usually _relentlessly_ free-flowing. He can’t figure out how to dam the communication flow, despite wanting to many-a-time before. But, somehow, this _bird_ could?

The queen has an entire court of ravens at her disposal. Are they _all_ this way?

Vescailla crosses her arms. Her eyes move between the prince and the bird. Her brow is no longer creased in anger, rather in something closer to worry. Seeing the ghost of fear cross the queen's face is almost a surreal experience. He began to think it wasn't possible.

“Silent prince. Feathered advisor,” Vescailla addresses them both grandiosely, like she's officiating an important ceremony. “You still trust in Geralt, despite everything? You’re willing to bet your life— _all_ of our lives—on this _witcher?_ ”

“Yes,” says the raven. Its words are slightly ahead of the poet’s thoughts. He's caught completely off-guard.

Vescailla rubs goosebumps from her skin, frowning at the bird. She says nothing else.  
  



	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs in this chapter:  
> [The Crooked Kind](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YsLccI7_MbA) by [Radical Face](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCMWdd9xaGXlgYHaTB8p4mdg)  
>   
> [Level Up](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U4n_8R5lKnw) by [Vienna Teng](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCNRi-6fakkfLSgTNy4OYmCQ)  
>   
> [Arms of the Arts](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m0pM4wB4jAs) by [AlascA](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCMJreZaun-cg9Lym0W4havA)

Jaskier sits on the layered clay tiles on the castle roof, looking out over the landscape and feeling the cold fingers of the morning breeze run across his scalp. A sigh escapes his nose. He missed the green, the flowers, the birdsong, the smell of rain on sun-warmed earth. Spring couldn’t come soon enough.

It’s been four and a half months—they were decidedly the longest and coldest of his life. Jaskier hasn’t seen hide nor hair of the witcher in that time. But the faelands weren’t attacked by the humans, either. Coupled with the quiet wilderness surrounding him, it feels like life itself is in suspension.

The raven sits silently beside him. Jaskier gently strokes its head. _You stood up to the queen for Geralt’s sake,_ he says, _You have faith in him, too. Why?_

The raven fluffs and shakes its feathers, but doesn’t answer. Cryptic as ever. Jaskier rolls his eyes.

The unanswered question about where Geralt stood in his feelings about him has been slowly chipping away at Jaskier’s sanity, keeping him up late on some days, and making him dip into a self-hating spiral during others.

He isn’t _surprised_ that the witcher seemed to be in no hurry to return to him. But he hoped to at least be given the chance to talk, to tell the witcher he didn’t _intend_ to cause him harm—that he didn’t realize what he was doing until it was too late.

Jaskier sighs again, resolute in keeping his hands tied. It would _have_ to be a conversation that Geralt initiates. He knows he can’t leave any space in his mind for those little termites of doubt to eat away at him, making him question if the witcher’s affections were true.

 _I’m sure he just needs time to think, to sort things out in his mind, maybe to figure out what’s real and what isn’t. After all, our fates had been entangled for…gods, how long_ was _it? It couldn’t have been as far back as when we’d first met—_ could _it? Was_ any _of what we had genuine?_

He pulls his knees against his chest. The question makes him sick, but he keeps circling back to it.

Then there’s Ren. What the hell does she _see_ in him? All Jaskier can make out of his reflection is a strange, unlovable creature in both action and appearance. He is too much. He isn’t enough. And now he is without the people who brought both the best and the worst out of him.

Where did that leave him? If he is neither human nor animal, neither good nor bad, neither king nor subject, then what the fuck _is_ he?

None of the moves he made in the game of life felt wholly right. None of them. Except for when his fingers danced across his lute and he spilled his soul into the wind, because that was as close to being unapologetically himself as he ever got.

Alas, most problems couldn’t be solved with a simple song.

“Still flying up here to mourn the spring?” says a voice from behind. Jaskier turns his head in time to see Vescailla land a few feet behind him. He frowns, not keen about having his peace interrupted and certainly not in the mood to be antagonized. “Worry not,” announces the queen, “The sprites are preparing to wake the land. Spring will arrive on schedule. It always does.”

Jaskier turns back towards the overlook. “Does this mean they’ve given up on finding a dragon?”

Vescailla barks out a laugh. “No. Of course not. But Asper can’t shirk his duties as a steward of the land just to go chasing after some elusive beast.”

“Right.”

Silence. It’s...awkward. Jaskier waits patiently for her to leave. Hoping she’ll take the hint, he holds his wings a bit higher, and slightly open, trying to create a wall between them.

It’s rare for Vescailla to seek him out like this, and the peculiarity of her presence bothers him. He chances a glance behind him and sees her standing with her arms crossed, glaring out over the landscape, brow furrowed in some form of deep consideration. He leaves her to it, returning to mulling over a dozen witcher-related what-ifs.

Eventually, Vescailla says, “I can’t help but wonder where you get your idealism from. It is a very un-skrull-like trait.”

Jaskier hugs his knees tighter. Ah. There it is; the relentless scrutinization. Is that all she came for?

“Well. It wasn’t from my father.”

“No. It most certainly wasn’t.” She pauses, then takes a deep breath and says, “Dramatic as you tend to be, I’ve noticed you’ve seemed _especially_ tormented lately. I tire of watching you mope around the castle and make your rounds in the orchards looking like you’re carrying a golem on your back. It makes me think you may have misinterpreted my words from all those weeks ago and are using them to fuel your destructive thought patterns.”

Jaskier peeks over the dark crook of his wing to frown at her. Vescailla shifts her weight to the other hip and goes on. “I want to make something clear, because you seem displeased with your own blood: Just because I don’t want you telling the humans the truth about us doesn’t mean you should be _ashamed_ of what you are. It doesn’t matter what mankind thinks of us. There is nothing disgraceful about being a Faery.”

At this, Jaskier gives a small, bitter laugh and turns away again. Vescailla’s voice comes a little closer and gains a little fervor. “We are merely protecting ourselves. Do you hear me, Jaskier? _We do not hide out of_ _shame_.”

“Whatever you say.” Embittered as he is, he still finds himself taken aback. Vescailla...actually _cares_ about his feelings, and is bringing it up in her own twisted way. But it's laughably ineffective. She’s always come off as far too prideful and emotionally distant to be any good at being comforting. Not that she’d _ever_ been someone Jaskier expected to lean on for emotional support, or to give him anything that even _resembled_ a nurturing attitude. But, with Ren and Geralt absent from his life, the queen is all he's got left. Vescailla must realize this.

She's trying. He'll acknowledge that.

“I didn’t mean to shoot your idea down so harshly,” the queen says. Jaskier sits up a little, noticing her voice lost its usual arrogance. He listens intently. “What I mean to say is…I don’t think it’s inherently _bad_ …that you’re trying to think of new ways to approach things.”

He looks at her, confusion deepening. “You’re not angry that I want to go in a different direction than you?”

“Don't twist my words. Your ideas are _thoroughly_ frustrating.” She lowers herself to his level, sitting heavily on the tile beside him. “But you’re mistaken if you think that I won’t allow you to become your own person.” She leans lazily back on her hands. The mountain wind picks up. Jaskier watches her dark waves of hair billow. After a moment, the queen shrugs loosely and says, “I'm only here to teach you what I know. It is your decision what you do with that knowledge when I’m gone.”

“Even if that choice goes against everything you worked to build?”

The queen closes her eyes and frowns, appearing to be bracing herself against a rise of emotion. Her words are careful, “I’ve very recently come to the conclusion that people are the way they are by no accident. As different as you and I can be, we share the same blood. This blood carries the collective knowledge of our ancestors. Its echo is hard to hear, but if you can learn how to tune in to it, you’ll realize it is _far wiser_ than you or I will ever be on our own. I am no fool, Jaskier. I’ve lived through millennia and I know that all times change. If the whisper in your bones is telling you leshens should be gardeners rather than warriors—if this is meant to be the end of an era—then, so be it.”

Jaskier is surprised by the tears forming in the corners of his eyes. He quickly turns his head away, embarrassed by what she’d probably view as weakness. It takes him a moment to figure out what his feelings meant—to understand why it felt like a weight had been lifted from him. He’d been so wrapped up in his relationship with Geralt lately that he’d been putting off dealing with all the other issues that ate away at him over the years. This was one of them, he supposed; his grief that he’d been forced into becoming a fighter, even though all he really wanted was to write and sing and love.

“I’m glad you’ve put serious thought into these issues,” Vescailla continues. “It’s important to know what you stand for before you take up the throne. You must be firm in your values if you are to be taken seriously. _Respected_ by your people, mind you. Not feared…Never feared.” 

“It’s hard for me to imagine being a leader,” he says, glad the raven didn’t echo the waver his natural voice would’ve carried. “I can barely keep a handle on my own actions. I feel soiled by the terrible choices I’ve made—and here I’m expected to govern an entire species?” He shakes his head. “I’ll lead us to ruin. I’ll only make a fucking mess of it. Who would follow someone like me, anyway?”

“Dear heart, can’t you see how clinging so hard to your perfectionism hurts you? It's good to want to improve, but you hold such high standards for yourself—far higher than what you expect of anybody else. You must understand that nobody is without their flaws. Certainly not I." She pauses, then adds, "We _all_ make mistakes. We are not _gods_. If given the choice, I would not have my heir sit on the wall like a prized tapestry. You’re tattered around the edges, a little faded, and perhaps a bit unraveled—so what? The scars on our bodies and the colors that tint our souls serve to tell our stories. It's just like one of your ballads. Imperfection betrays you as mortal, and that’s not a bad thing.”

Jaskier remains silent. Thinking.

“Besides,” the queen goes on, “such a delicate state as perfection does not cater to resilience. If we equate ourselves with the flowers you hold so dearly, then Life would be the boot that inevitably crushes us all under its heel. You put such a heavy focus on your blooms—panicking when one begins to wilt, all while ignoring the buds below that are just beginning. Would it not be wiser to invest your energy into cultivating sprawling roots which will allow you to persist and regrow, rather than worrying yourself to bits over a single broken stem?”

”After all,” she says, her smugness returning, “when disaster strikes, which will remain? The painstakingly cultivated rose, or the dandelions flourishing unapologetically at its base? There are many who wouldn’t want the dandelions there—they don’t accentuate the rose, you see, and thus are deemed to be weeds. But do the dandelions care? No. They are constantly plucked and broken and trampled upon. But they have taproots that are deep.”

Jaskier wrinkles his nose. “What kind of person would aspire to be a weed? There is no art made about common dandelions—or buttercups, for that matter.”

“Is that so? Good thing you’re an artist, then.”

He looks at her; She’s smiling at him wryly. She says, her voice melodious:

 _I heard you telling lies,  
I heard you say you weren't born of our blood,  
I know we're the crooked kind,  
But _you're _crooked too, boy, and it shows._

She tilts his chin up with a cold finger, trapping his gaze. He resists at first, but something about her energy, so authoritative and certain, _demands_ his attention. He can see thousands of years hidden in that surefire gaze; deep roots.

She lets him go, but holds his stare, her eyes narrowing daringly. He can feel something unspeakably _ancient_ stir within him.

 _Some get dealt simple hands,  
Some walk the common paths, all nice and worn,   
__But_ all _folks are damaged goods,  
_ _It’s not a talk of "if," just one of "when" and "how,"_

_So, collect your scars and wear 'em well,  
Your blood's as good an ink as any,  
Go scratch your name into the clouds,  
And pull them all down._

  
  


Jaskier meanders through the woods, strumming his lute. He tries desperately to hang onto the fleeting awareness of the soul of the woodland on his breath, the dust of the earth in his bones, and fae blood—those eras of history—swimming through his veins. He searches for himself reflected in them, all the while mulling over Ren and Vescailla's advice.

He doesn't feel like he's made much progress; more like he's been turning in circles, returning over and over to the edge of a breakthrough, only to be wrestled back into the trap of self-doubt. 

From it’s perch on his shoulder, the raven says, _Since you’re so stubborn in your belief that you’ve been ruined through your mistakes, then shall we try a trick of the mind?_ _A mental restart? Let’s wipe the slate clean_ _._

Jaskier reaches a grove, a wide flat of brown, windswept leaves and the dry, swaying skeletons of grasses.

The bird takes flight and circles above him. _Can you not hear it?_ _The distant echo of panpipes?_ it calls down. _You're drifting, caught midair in the brief moment before the dive. You want to reel your energy in, to fold it up and lock it away, so you won't hurt anybody. But that is a mistake._ _Don't let yourself grow small. You're painfully aware of what a destructive force you can be, if your strength is left unchecked_ _. It's time to take control of that power. Claim it. Shape it like a sculptor with clay._ _  
_

Jaskier watches the bird curiously. Ravens, though harsh-sounding and foreboding, are, in the end, still _song_ birds—the largest, in fact. The king of them all. And this one sings to him, all on its own:

_Come out.  
You have been waiting long enough.  
You're done with all the talk, talk, talk with nothing on the table._

_It's time to come on out.  
There will be no sign from above.  
You'll only hear the knock, knock, knock of your own heart as signal..._

The raven swoops down and _through_ him, somehow. Jaskier, clutching his chest and reeling from the strange feeling, finds himself in pitch darkness. He looks around wildly and blinks in surprise when the raven lands a few meters away, transforming into a mirror image of himself.

“What the _—_ ” Jaskier takes a step back. His breath catches. He must be _imagining things_ —

The twin’s eyes narrow as it sings, mimicking him perfectly. Its irises crackle electric-blue, its two fangs are bared in a wicked grin, and its antlers _drip_ with blood. _Blood? Where—_

_Begin again.  
Dynamite the dam on the flow.  
Your body feels the tock, tock, tock of time as it hammers._

_Oh, we are all cinders  
From a fire burning long ago,  
But here it is, the knock, knock, knock of your own heart that matters…_

The raven throws out an arm. Vines erupt from the black nothingness at Jaskier’s feet and he’s forced to move, leaping to the side.

Just as he steadies himself, a chest-rattling rumble makes him look up. Lightning flashes and thunder rolls. But there are no clouds. There is no sky. It's just endless, consuming darkness and it feels like _it's closing in on him—_

“What’re you _doing?_ ” he calls to the bird, fear rising.

He knows _exactly_ what it's doing; but he’s terrified of the idea of confronting the worst parts of himself. He needs more time. He isn't prepared for this. He isn't _strong_ enough for—

 _Call it any name you need,  
_ _Call it your 2.0, your rebirth, whatever!_

His twin removes the staff strapped to its back and moves towards Jaskier, swift and intent. Jaskier backs away, keeping pace.

 _So long as you can feel it all,  
_ _So long as all your doors are flung wide.  
_ _Call it your day number one in the rest of forever_

Jaskier feels the weight in his hands shift. He glances down and nearly trips when he discovers his instrument has turned into his staff. _No...No no no—_

 _If you are_ _afraid_ _, give more.  
If you are _alive _, live_ _more_ _now.  
_ Everybody _here has seams and scars_

The twin runs at him.

 _So what?  
_ _Level up!_

Jaskier instantly blocks its swinging weapon with his own, muscle memory taking over. He spars with the feral shadow, moving swiftly, parrying and ducking and swinging in a vicious dance. It reminds him of when he was training with Ren—of _why_ he learned how to fight like this in the first place; _There’s always another way._

He catches his staff in the crooks his twin’s antlers and twists the neck just enough that the body is forced to follow, rolling shoulder-first to the ground. Jaskier pins him there.

The twin disappears in a puff of smoke and the raven reappears soaring above him, its voice more gentle:

_Let your faith die._

_Bring your wonder._

_Yes, you are only one.  
No, it is not enough  
But if you lift your eyes, _

_I am your brother._

The raven brings him back into the day; back into the grove. _  
_

 _And this is all we need.  
_ _And this is where we start.  
_ _This is the day we greet.  
_ _This_ _is the day, no other._

Jaskier looks around and takes a deep breath, re-grounding himself in reality. He grasps the lute firmly, glad to have it back. _  
  
Do it,_ says the raven. _I know you want to try._

Jaskier stills himself and reaches into his depths; into his power.

 _Creational_ magic.

It’s a fine idea, but something he’ll have to figure it out on his own. Vescailla’s teachings are about commanding what was already there. Ren seemed to suggest a calling forth, of sorts. This is something new. This is something… _godlike._

Is it possible?

Well, if he can leech off the earth’s energy to do things like summon storms, then by the same logic, he can perhaps fold that energy in on itself and use it to transmute—

 _Stop overthinking! You already know how to do this,_ says the raven.

Jaskier looks down at his instrument, and at that moment, decides that, yes, he _does_.

He positions his hands over the strings, expands his energy over the area, and...he plays the woods; sings what it whispers to him. The raven echoes his words instantaneously; their minds now effortlessly entangled. 

_Draw me some lines and I'll draw you a face,  
_ _Vividly marked by age,  
_ _Or dance me a dance and I'll dance you around  
_ _To the beat of our feet, its sound,  
_ _  
All imperfections, all are Gods,  
_ _I’ve found my answer in the arms_ _of the arts..._

Okay...alright, yes, he’s feeling this! 

He circles the edge of the grove in a waltz. A new flavor of energy pours from the soles of his feet. Tangles of clover, chickweed and veronica grow spontaneously where he steps, bursting with color against the dull winter backdrop. He looks down with pleasant wonder at himself.

Robust, pervasive and wild; the poet is a weed through and through, and this is good.

He plucks a dandelion from the ground and slides it behind his ear. It suits him.

 _Point me a star and I won't know its name,  
_ _I will judge it by its light_  
 _Shout me a lie and I'll smile you the truth,_  
 _Neither is laid down in books_

 _Whisper a joke and I will laugh out loud  
But I cry if I laugh too long  
_ _Oh I'll never forget the day that I met  
The muse whose arms I chose..._

_All imperfections, all are gods,  
I've found my answer in the arms of the arts  
All revelations, true and sublime,  
Will find their way into art in due time_

He twirls on his heels, heart pumping, allowing the joy of it to fill every crevice of himself. It shoves those heavy stones of grief aside, replacing them with a lightness that carried momentum.

He heralds the spring with his music—similar to what a sprite would do, moving laboriously from tree to tree, from den to den and from meadow to meadow.

Light peeks through the clouds; drawing forth the warmth of the sun to melt the frost. He wakes the foxes and badgers and bears with the vibrations of his dancing heels.

 _Speak a true word and I'll tell you a tale  
Of a boy who loved to write  
As he grew up he decided to _sing _  
On love and the passing of time!_

 _All imperfections, all are Gods,  
I found my answer in the arms of the arts  
_ _All revelations, true and sublime,  
Will find their way into art...t_ _ranscending time_

He slows when he hears wolves in the distance, howling in response to the raven’s siren voice carrying over the valley. Jaskier follows the sounds and finds them down the trail, by a riverside, watching with tilted heads as the ice melts from the surface of the water. They’re grouped around the carcass of a deer.

A small group of ravens stand among them, awaiting their turn to pick at the meat. Jaskier watches them for a moment.

It’s an odd pair at first glance; the beast and the bird, but he knows they have a mutually-beneficial relationship. Neither are _quite_ as well off on their own as when they are together.

Jaskier sighs and returns the lute to his back. He wants badly to talk with Geralt, to tell the witcher his side of the story; to say how sorry he is. He wants dearly to show the witcher his newfound abilities, and to go on and on _and on_ about the flowers and the forest and the music and his echoing roots, knowing that the wolf would be smiling fondly at him and his boundless passionate energy the entire time.

Too bad it isn’t up to him.

The raven alights upon his antlers and pecks the top of his head. _You can be a stubborn, masochistic fool, you know that?_

Jaskier frowns and waves the bird away. Great. Now all he could think about was how sorely he missed Geralt.

Maybe he could just…check up on him? Just to have some answers and peace of mind? After all, is Geralt well? Is he finding enough work? Is he perhaps drowning himself in ale every night, unable to sleep? Maybe he went back to his old enchantress flame in search of solace?

A burning, possessive feeling pulses through Jaskier’s veins, pushing him over the edge. He melts in frustration, bending forward and groaning loudly and dramatically.

The wolves stare with their piercing golden eyes, ears perked. They whine questioningly. He glares at them.

“What’re _you_ looking at?”

Well. Now the he simply _has_ to know what Geralt is up to. What was the harm, after all, in just seeing his face? He could keep his cloak up. He could remain hidden. It'll be _fine_.

 _That’s more like it!_ says the raven, landing back on his antlers. It wags its tail and caws loudly. _Onward!_

Jaskier winces at the harsh noise. He turns towards the direction of the largest landmark for miles, Gors Velen, unsure of where else to start, and takes to the air.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs in this chapter:  
> [From Eden](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JmWbBUxSNUU) by [Hozier](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCwAam3W_VLfb6mEKPW2nDFg)  
>   
> [Hello My Old Heart](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BeGU_em4wgQ) by [The Oh Hellos](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCwfDOdW0FOILPpwJBcA62wQ)
> 
> Also, despite there being no lyrics, the middle of this chapter is heavily based on [The Rockrose and the Thistle](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0eC6rgIjUvM) by [The Amazing Devil](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCeseDd6YnUSJhTEhTlNwyUw)

Geralt, slouched against the cell wall, watches as the mayor and a guard approach him. He sits up. Could it be late spring already? He’d lost track of the time, having only the gradually warming ambient temperatures, and the changes in his own body as it began to wither away from never being given enough food, to keep a loose grasp on how long he’d been in there.

“It’s your lucky day, witcher,” says the mayor. The guard unlocks the door. “We’re letting you out early. In exchange, you will take care of our latest monster problem. Bring me its head, and we’ll call things even. I figure taking out this beast will prevent a loss of life roughly equal to that which you _could’ve_ saved in the village that antlered devil destroyed. So, deal?”

Geralt frowns, feeling strongly that he didn’t owe this man _shit_. But if it got him out of this cage...

* * *

  
Soaring lazily, eyes scanning the landscape of the great forest’s northernmost edge, Jaskier catches movement below. He circles above for a moment, observing, eyes locking in on the deep, shining brown of the mare’s form first, and then the stark white hair of the man beside her.

Pleasure, excited and anticipatory, flits across Jaskier’s body. He immediately folds his wings and dips, twisting himself between the branches of the canopy, effortlessly agile like a swallow chasing an insect. The raven is close behind.

 _A whole_ _continent of places to have gone, and here he is._ _You two certainly have a knack for running into each other,_ says the bird.

Jaskier peeks at the witcher from around a tree. He hides in spite of the knowledge that they occupied different sides of the veil, aware of the power Geralt may wield. The bard doesn’t see the gold of the septagram around his neck, only the silver glint of the wolf medallion, but he isn’t taking any chances.

 _He looks thinner, weary,_ Jaskier thinks _. I wonder what he’s been doing all these months? Is he headed for the orchard, I wonder? No…I know that look. He’s hunting something—working a contract._

 _Go talk to him,_ says the raven from a branch just above him.

Jaskier sets his jaw. _How many times do I have to tell you,_ he’s _got to be the one to initiate a conversation. I will be driven_ mad _by little doubts otherwise._

But, oh…that face. The faery wilts. How he missed that face; those eyes, his voice, his scent. How Jaskier longed to gather armfuls of that body, to run his fingers along the witcher’s skin and kiss him and sing about how much he means to him.

 _Ugh. Do I have to do everything?_ says the raven.

The faery glances upward, wondering what that was supposed to mean, and sees the bird swoop low from its perch and fly towards Geralt. It _belts_ out the words of longing that are nestled deep within Jaskier’s mind—words he _fully_ intended to keep to _himself._

The raven’s voice is, by now, a near-perfect mimic of the bard’s, except this time it’s uncharacteristically confident and practically _whining._

_Babe, there's something tragic about you  
Something so magic about you  
Don't you agree?_

_A pox on it!_ Jaskier leans around the wood and reaches vainly after the raven. He wants to strangle it.

_Babe, there's something lonesome about you  
Something so wholesome about you  
Get closer to me…_

The raven perches near Geralt’s head. Jaskier watches crossly as it puffs up its chest, satisfied with itself.

 _Cheeky bastard!_ _How dare it betray me like this?_ The faery snaps his fingers, trying to yank the bird back onto his side of the veil. But…it isn’t working? The bird’s _resisting_ him, somehow.

Of-plowing-course it is.

_…Honey you're familiar like my mirror years ago,  
Idealism sits in prison; chivalry fell on it's sword,  
Innocence died screaming, honey, ask me, I should know,  
I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door_

Jaskier tiptoes after the bird, planning to pluck it out of the branch and tie its beak shut.

Geralt cocks his head to listen to it sing. His cat eyes scan the surroundings, looking less interested in the bird itself, and far more about what the bird’s presence _meant._

 _Babe, there's something wretched about this  
Something so _ _precious_ _about this  
__Where to begin?_

The raven hops from branch to branch, following Geralt as he steps lightly around the area, looking as if he were searching for the most skittish of creatures.

 _Babe, there’s something_ _broken_ _about this,  
__But I might be_ _hoping_ _about this,  
Oh, what a sin…_

Geralt wanders within a few meters of Jaskier. Without warning, he looks _right_ at the faery, then walks briskly towards him, reaching inside his shirt and pulling out the septagram.

 _Gods, he kept it! Wait, shit—_ Jaskier straightens and stumbles backwards, clumsily maintaining the distance between them as he remembers its power—he shouldn’t be skirting the line of cheating his self-imposed rules like this; but, oh, his _aching chest_...

_…Honey you're familiar like my mirror years ago,  
Idealism sits in prison; chivalry fell on it's sword,  
Innocence died screaming, honey, ask me, I should know,  
I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door_

The amulet sends out a barrier of red light around the witcher, extending a good six feet in every direction. Jaskier bristles and leaps away from its edge. Geralt continues towards him. Jaskier steps back in perfect time.

The two of them continue the awkward dance for a bit; with Geralt stepping around one tree, and Jaskier diving around another, keeping himself _just_ out of reach.

The witcher’s head turns left and right, holding the pendant up like a lantern. The magic inches closer to the faery. Jaskier leans away, prickling with anxiety.

The raven lands above Jaskier and caws loudly, giving his location away. Geralt zeroes in. Jaskier bites his lip, eyeing the red barrier, briefly considering giving into his pleading heart, but then he turns around and runs the other way. 

_Stay!_ says the raven. _He’s trying to make contact! Doesn’t this count?_

 _No—no, it doesn’t...we initiated this—I can’t. I’m sorry, I just can’t—_ He takes to the air.

 _Go back! You’re making a huge mistake!_ The bird’s cawing sounded…oddly desperate. It almost makes Jaskier stop. Almost.

_  
  
_

Jaskier walks for hours through those dark, familiar woods, following by moonlight a thin red thread lying limply along the ground. He gathers loose armfuls of the stuff and shoves it back inside of his chest as he walks. He’s confused. He knows he cut it. But something is off. It shouldn’t be… _unraveled_ like this.

He looks up, and dread fills him. The thread has wound its way up the rocky cliffs of his mountain home. There are places where it’s been snared on brambles and anchored between boulders.

A gentle breeze picks up, becoming vicious, seemingly out of nowhere. Jaskier begins to climb; Attempting to fly would be unwise.

The wind howls around the stone, breaking apart against the sides, and multiplying itself, sounding like a ghostly pack of wolves as it sings breathy warnings through the crags. It rocks the faery’s slight form, becoming more forceful the higher he goes. He keeps his wings folded tightly against himself, afraid of catching it.

Thistles, scattered amongst the crevices, whistle and bend low, running up against his cheeks and arms and leaving little scratches.

His limbs are trembling with effort by the time he reaches the top. What he sees makes him forget to breathe.

 _Geralt_ …

The witcher is laid out on the ground, the stone beneath him stained black with blood.

The word that escapes the faery’s mouth is small and disbelieving, “...What?” He falls to his knees at Geralt’s side. “No…no, _no no no no—please, not now...not now...”_

He swallows, choking on the rest of his mutterings, and bends over the witcher’s body, staring into the gaping wound in his chest—a dark, seemingly endless abyss, appearing as if there could be _worlds_ hidden within it. Geralt’s ribs are exposed, the ends jagged and ugly, the door of that cage having been _smashed_ open to reveal deflated lungs and a motionless heart.

The injury has been partially sewn closed with the red thread. Jaskier could tell by the way the woven strings were misaligned that the job was clumsy and quick. The other end is tangled in his lifeless fingers.

The horror settles on Jaskier’s shoulders, deep and heavy: He couldn’t do it on his own.

  
  


Jaskier shoots upright in his bed, breathless, drenched in sweat and _shuddering_. He hears a tapping on the window and spins to look. A few of his crows are hovering in the darkness on the other side, cawing loudly, pecking at the glass. Jaskier throws himself out of the sheets, runs down the hall to the nearest balcony and dives outside.

The moon’s full face bares down on him. The crows’ feathers shine in its gentle light as they dip towards the woods, beckoning him in a disorienting, panicked cacophony. Jaskier flies swiftly behind, his rising panic making his limbs cold and his chest feel starved for air.

The murder leads him to a meadow near the woodland’s edge. Even in the dark, he can make out the sky-blue of chicory and soft white umbels of Queen Anne’s Lace emerging from between the rippling, golden blanket of grass. Among them he finds, in a clearing made when the plants were crushed down in a struggle, two forms on the ground.

One is a huge fiend. The other is Geralt. The fiend is clearly dead, but the witcher moans softly, curled up on his side.

There’s so much blood.

The raven circles above him, cawing madly and chasing vultures away. Jaskier falters, struggling not to pass out. The realization hits him like a rockslide. _This_ was what Vescailla had warned him about; setting Geralt onto another track of fate. It was a gamble, he knew, but he didn’t think…it didn’t make sense that it would be…

Was _this_ why the raven was so desperate sounding the day before? Did it _know_ that Geralt’s new destiny was about to catch up with him?

Jaskier falls onto his knees and leans over Geralt, throat tight, breaths ragged. His eyes swiftly scan the witcher’s body. The wound is in his gut—a deep gore from the fiend’s tusk, which was then torn open wide, like the monster had picked him up and roughly tossed him aside. Jaskier can see things spilling from Geralt’s body that were _never_ meant to see the light of day. The faery shuts his eyes against a nauseating wave that rolls over him, swallowing vomit back down.

This was not supposed to happen.

“Geralt,” the raven lands at his side. “I’m here…I’m with you...” Jaskier wishes, now more than ever, that he could speak with his _own_ damned voice.

His mind runs erratically, desperate to form a plan, but his chest feels heavy with guilt and distracts him.

It’s as if the space between his ribs has been filled with rocks, but also that there are _ants_ crawling all over those rocks—little titches of confusion and anger and self-loathing—and all of their voices are running together like bits of filth clogging up the alleyways of his mind until he can’t hear his own thoughts over them and— _Focus, damn it!_ He grits his teeth and shakes his head. _I can’t afford to get lost in my emotions. There’s no fucking_ time _—!_

“Jas…?” Geralt’s face contorts in pain with the word. His eyes flutter briefly, but he seems either unable or unwilling to keep them open.

The mental chaos stops at once. Jaskier’s attention fixes wholly on the witcher’s voice. He hangs desperately onto the sound and how much it _hurts_ to hear.

He remembers something. He lifts his hands above the witcher. There they hover, as he sits frozen with indecision, afraid that one wrong move will destroy _everything_ —

“I-I might be able to save you—” he stutters. “Vescailla did this for me when I was an infant—I think you have to—you need to make a deal with me—but I-I won’t do it unless you say I can…" He pauses, the next words felt wrong, but he didn’t know what else to do. “Geralt, will you trade me your life?”

Geralt doesn’t react right away. But then he whispers, so softly Jaskier _barely_ catches it, “You’ve had it.”

 _Bastard…_ Jaskier aches so hard it makes him rock forward and brace his arms against the ground.

For a moment, he finds himself paralyzed by the mixed emotions. Then, in a surge of will, he reins in his heart, shaking the hurricane of feelings off his back, so his logic had some breathing room.

He looks around frantically for the red threads of fate.

Once he senses them, he quickly, clumsily, grasps the one extending from his own chest with his left hand, and takes Geralt’s into his right.

“May I?” the faery asks, holding the two ends close. Geralt doesn’t answer; doesn’t look. Jaskier’s voice becomes more fervent. He nudges the witcher’s shoulder gently with his elbow, hoping to rouse some last bit of strength in him. “ _Geralt_ …come on...you can’t just—y-you have to _say_ ‘yes’… _please_ …I don’t know what I’m doing….it might not work unless you _say it_ —”

“I love you,” the witcher mumbles, sounding dazed, distant, not quite there.

The aching swells and becomes _agitated_ in the bard; the wild energy having been held captive far too long, only multiplying in that time. It wanted desperately to be set free so it could spill out into that thread and fill it with restless pulsing life.

The little words echo within him, reverberating off his inner walls, hitting him over and over: _I love you_. They make him question everything he’d assumed about the nature of being claimed. And they are, he realizes suddenly, only assumptions.

Geralt can’t possibly be any _less_ enchanted than he is in this moment. 

Jaskier shakily ties the two ends together, praying to every god and goddess out there with an ear to listen that this will work—that this is how you claimed someone formally.

He pulls the knot closed as tightly as he can, ensuring it will _never ever_ come undone. Then, he waits.

Geralt is lifeless. His side of the thread is lifeless.

Dread weighs on Jaskier, as if one of those aforementioned gods turned earth’s gravity up a few notches. His eyes become wet and bleary. His chest shudders. He holds the back of his hand in front of the witcher’s nose, but can feel no breath.

_Fuck…_

He bends forward, wrapping his arms tightly around Geralt and wailing without sound.

Everything the faery touched, he ruined.

 _I’m sorry…_ He buries his face into the crook of Geralt’s neck. His fingers curl around the seams of his armor; his other hand shakily slides upwards to tangle in his hair... _I’m so sorry..._

 _Bury him,_ the raven says. Jaskier sits up slowly and looks at the bird questioningly. _You cannot wait,_ it says. _Do it now, while he’s still warm._

Jaskier shakes his head.

_Do as I say, you fool! You wouldn’t be in this situation if you had just listened to me before._

The faery’s eyes widen. He isn’t sure where the bird intends to go with this, but if one thing has been made clear over time, it’s that the raven is privy to some type of esoteric knowledge. Even though metaphysical things were _miles_ beyond Jaskier’s understanding, he feels he has no choice but to _trust_ in it.

 _Anything—_ anything _for a chance to fix this._

He looks around, brow creased, wondering how he’s supposed to dig a witcher-sized hole before his body grows cold?

Then he sees them, as the sun’s first rays peek over the horizon: Badgers, on a grassy knoll on the field’s edge, emerging from their hibernation.

  
* * *

Geralt’s consciousness swims in nothingness for a while. He feels like stone, similar to the way he felt when he’d been hit with that paralyzing spell. Except this time, everything is dark and cold and far away, and there’s an enormous weight pressing down on his chest.

What happened?

He remembers the fiend. Remembers his fatal mistake, and the incomprehensible pain that followed after his adrenaline and his potions wore off. He remembers the feeling of regret when it sunk in that he wouldn’t be making it back to the orchard; and the somewhat surprising disappointment of realizing he’d die alone, harsh truths about his profession aside, after even Roach had galloped away in terror of the fiend.

But… _Jaskier_ had been there, hadn’t he? He swears he heard the faery’s voice; felt his trembling touch. But...maybe not. Everything past a certain point is hazy, and he isn’t sure what’s real and what’s a mere hallucination cooked up by his dying brain.

Geralt hears something, suddenly; a voice, albeit muffled and sad, and it sounds an _awful lot_ like Jaskier’s—like the faery singing privately to himself, unaware of the witcher’s presence. Geralt isn’t sure he should be listening so intently, feeling a bit like he’s eavesdropping, but he can’t help himself. That voice is so sweet, feels so much like home, it begins to stir the life back into his body.

_Hello, my old heart  
How have you been?  
Are you still there inside my chest?  
I've been so worried, you've been so still  
Barely beating at all_

_Oh, oh, don't leave me here alone  
Don't tell me that we've grown  
For having loved a little while  
_

_Oh, oh, I don't wanna be alone  
I wanna find a home  
And I wanna share it with you_

Geralt can feel his heart beat. Once…twice…and a third time, before it sputters back into a rhythm; slowly—slower even than usual—as it wakes from a deep slumber.

_Hello, my old heart  
It's been so long  
Since I've given you away…_

He hears rustling above him; the dry sound of shifting earth. The voice grows a little clearer, and his eyelids light up red as the brightness of the sun hits his face. He hears strange little snuffling sounds and can smell something akin to damp fur, earthworms and musk. A cool breeze crosses his lips.

Acting on their own, starved for air as they were, his lungs fill themselves in a sudden gasp. He sits up slowly, coughing, and rubs his eyes; then blinks sleepily and looks around.

Yup. Still in that meadow. A pair of badgers sit nearby, their wet noses covered in dirt, staring at him. 

A raven perches on the edge of the hovel he’s lying in. It’s the one who is singing. That means—

Geralt’s eyes scan the horizon, hopeful, but then he wilts. Unless the faery was hiding from him, he wasn’t there.

The witcher stills himself against the disappointment. Then, he looks down. His entire body is caked with dirt and his leather armor is torn right across the front. But the skin showing beneath it is fine—scarred _hideously_ , but otherwise fully healed.

He looks back up at the raven, and asks, “Do _you_ know what happened?”

The bird only continues to sing, not missing a beat, and with a gentleness that makes Geralt weak. It stares at him with a tilted head, fondly, almost, appearing _far more_ knowing than a simple beast should _ever_ look:

_…Nothing lasts forever,  
Some things aren't meant to be,  
But you'll never find the answers,  
Until you set your old heart free…_

_Until you set your old heart free._

Geralt’s breath catches in his throat and his eyes widen with a sudden realization. It made sense now. Why Jaskier had acted the way he did. _He thought…He convinced himself I didn’t actually—_

 _Hello, my old heart,_ the raven interrupts in a voice so _eerily_ like Jaskier’s.

Geralt’s heart begins to beat faster. Life begins to pour back into his heavy limbs. He climbs out of the hole, shakes his clothes free of dirt and looks intently towards the woodline.

_Hello, my old heart…_

The badgers scramble out of his way as the witcher leans into a brisk walk towards the trees and digs the golden amulet from beneath his shirt. His pace quickens into a jog, which then spills into a run. He clumsily stumbles over stones and fallen logs, his legs still regaining their life. “Jaskier, you _idiot_ …”

 _Hello, my old heart,_ the raven keeps chanting, joyful, as it flies ahead. Geralt follows the sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [My Own Soul's Warning](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sE7jCzWwbxw) by [The Killers](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCkhyoTaWKuB-Rdbb6Z3Z5DA)


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song:  
> [Would That I](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fsu5ZZwzFyk) by [Hozier](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCwAam3W_VLfb6mEKPW2nDFg)

Jaskier picks gently at the strings of his lute by candlelight. The meadow’s dirt still beneath his nails, he stands at an ancient shrine for the albatross-winged, markhor-horned nature goddess of the fae, Gaia. The lichen-mottled stone idol is perched on a wooded cliffside. He sings a gentle plea. Sings, because it’s the only way he knows how to talk to such deities. He always believed music is closer to their tongue than mortal words. It's universal, conveying just as much meaning between the stanzas as the lyrics themselves, no matter the language. Music, after all, is an imprint of emotion.

He must admit, he feels like a mosquito in a giant’s ear, with the desperate, _wanting_ air he brings to this place.

Jaskier stayed for hours at the field alongside Geralt, waiting for something to happen. But when the sky turned from blue to orange, his hope waned. He left to fetch his lute, asking the raven to stay by the witcher's side—just in case—and made his way to the shrine as a last resort.

Guilt churns his gut; He’d done _nothing_ for Gaia in his life, yet here he is, begging at her feet. Every fiber of his being rebels against the idea of Geralt being gone. If the goddess won't hear him, he's willing to fly to the heavens himself if it meant he could take the witcher’s hand and drag him back down. He deserves better, damn it.

Ren deserves better, too.

His crows surround him, perching on the short cobblestone wall encircling the shrine, and in the pink flowering tree that sheltered them from above. The birds pick up on the sweet, rabbit-soft tone that trickles from his mind like rain off a leaf.

_True that I saw his hair like the branch of a tree  
Willow—dancing on air before covering me  
Under cotton and calicos  
Over canopy dapple long ago_

_True that love in withdrawal was the weeping of me  
That the sound of the saw must be known by the tree  
Must be felled for to fight the cold  
I fretted fire but that was long ago_

The crows begin to echo each other in a round. He’d hear them warbling to each other, sometimes. Rather than simply copy his words, the clever birds are learning how to sing on their own, driving up their own melodies, picking up rhythms and playing off each other’s voices.

_And it's not tonight  
Where I'm set alight   
And I blink in sight  
Of your blinding light... _

Jaskier strums energetically, _definitively_ , and stomps his boot to the beat. He kicks up pollen, petals and stone dust, sending them shimmering past the little candle fires.

 _..._ _Oh, but you're good to me  
Oh, you're good to me  
Oh, but you're good to me..._

Jaskier leans his back against the statue and twiddles along, resting his head against Gaia’s belly, the stone smoothed by hundreds of years of wishful faeries. He hopes the goddess can sense the vibrations of his instrument from wherever it is she resides.

A pair of crows land on Gaia’s outstretched arms, settling themselves beside the stone birds already perched there, and sing softly up to her.

_With the roar of the fire my heart rose to its feet  
Like the ashes of ash I saw rise in the heat  
Settle soft and as pure as snow  
I fell in love with the fire long ago_

_With this love I cut loose  
I was never the same  
Watching still living roots be consumed by the flame  
I was fixed on his eyes of gold  
Laying waste to my lovin' long ago..._

Jaskier’s eyes scan the surroundings. Still no answer, neither from goddess nor dead man. Not even a flickering of firelight.

His fingers continue dancing lightly around the strings, but his energy starts to weaken. The goddess of Nature, if she truly exists, is probably shaking her head at him.

The bard closes his eyes as tears start to swell. His fingers lose their positions on the lute and fall into something slow and off-key.

_...So in awe, there, I stood, as you licked off the grain_   
_Though I've handled the wood, I still worship the flame_   
_As long as amber of ember glows_   
_All the wood that I'd loved is long ago…_

Jaskier stops playing and grits his teeth. He’d fucked up, messing with fate, and the universe made it’s move.

Checkmate.

He drops, sitting heavily on the ground. His spine arches with psychological weight and the wrists of his wings droop to rest against the stone. A wind comes over him, lifting petals off the overhanging tree. They twirl above him, some of them coming to rest on his shoulders and in his hair.

 _A second chance…that’s all I ask for._ He gazes up at the peach-colored sky, sending the thought out into the vast, airy ceiling.

Is Gaia the forgiving type? He doesn’t know. He never paid much attention.

Jaskier sets his instrument down beside himself, no longer in the mood to sing. He sits in silence for a while, wondering why he’d been so foolish, to entertain the belief that a _goddess_ would humor someone like him.

In need of a distraction, he languidly places his fingers on the cracks between the uneven flagstone floor, upheaved slowly by the roots of the tree above, and pulls wildflowers up through them: yellow celandine, dainty bluebells and pale spring beauties.

He looks down at his small creation fondly. If he were a god; if he could speak flower and grant wishes, he would undoubtedly lend them his ear. He would send them water, or dappled sunshine, or honeybees to caress their anthers; not because he _dares_ ponder their _worthiness_ of it, but because he knows what it is to suffer.

Is Gaia listening?

Something lands at his feet, sending petals flying and startling him. Jaskier straightens and blinks in surprise.

It's the raven.

 _What news?_ Jaskier asks, breathless inside his own mind. His stomach swirls with anticipation.

The raven nods towards something behind him. _See for yourself, crowling_.

The faery turns towards the woods, just in time to see the witcher emerge from a dancing sea of branches and leaves, backlit with the gold of the setting sun.

Jaskier is in the air in an instant, flying towards him, diving across the veil and tackling him like a pouncing cat.

“Whoa!” Geralt laughs and stumbles backwards, falling ungracefully into the leaf litter. Jaskier flaps his wings to soften the landing, and to help keep them sitting upright. The witcher presses a steadying hand against the base of the faery’s back and braces the other against the ground. Jaskier can feel Geralt’s warm breath on his neck, and it’s like spring sending winter’s ice away. He cups the witcher’s _perfectly_ scarred, _wonderfully_ unshaven cheeks in his hands and stares at him, his eyes wide with awe.

 _Are you real?_ he asks, but it’s before the raven has time to catch up and translate.

It doesn’t matter. Geralt reads his incredulous expression. “Yes, I’m real,” he says.

 _It worked...by the gods, it actually worked!_ Jaskier pulls him into a tight, possessive hug, like the witcher’s _existence_ depended on it, draping himself across his shoulders and melting around his bones. Geralt smells like damp earth—like the forest. The witcher and the woods. Two things he cares so deeply for combined into one. It’s almost too much.

He doesn’t fight the tears—he’s so overwhelmed with relief. Geralt gently rubs his back, massaging away his little shaking sobs and whispering soft assurances. Jaskier closes his eyes, slowly relaxing into the witcher’s warmth, and into his slow, steady pulse. He could easily fall asleep right there, in Geralt’s arms. But he won’t, because he’s afraid he’ll wake up to find that _this_ is the dream.

They begin to dip lazily towards the earth, both of them sinking into each other’s serenity.

Despite the calm, there’s still a little voice in the back of Jaskier’s mind telling him there’s something he’s supposed to be doing. He uses his wing to brace them against the ground and forces himself to sit up. He looks into Geralt’s eyes, his mouth falling slightly slack, wanting to say _something._ But, for once in his life, can’t find the words.

 _Screw it—_ He fills the space by sweeping his hand behind Geralt’s head, tangling his fingers through his dirt-flecked hair, and kissing him deeply.

The witcher smiles against his lips. “Do you believe me now?”

“Believe what?” the raven quips, standing dutifully off to the side. Jaskier straightens, his hand dropping to grasp the curve of Geralt’s shoulder.

“That I love you,” the witcher says. “Sincerely. Outside of the unkind things you tell yourself.”

Jaskier beams, all fangs and flushed cheeks. Despite Geralt’s words being the very thing he’s needed so badly to hear, for so long, the faery still finds it in himself to be cheeky. “Yes, I _suppose_ you’ve managed to convince me,” he says, and then closes his eyes and presses his forehead into Geralt’s, nuzzling him. They remain comfortably that way until Jaskier’s rehearsed apology clambers back to the forefront of his mind and _demands_ his attention. He sighs and sits back up.

“I’m sorry, Geralt.” His gaze, and hand, falls to the witcher's scarred belly, sweeping gently against the bare skin between the ravaged armor. Geralt tenses against his touch, and it only serves to feed the faery’s insecurities. Jaskier speaks; softly, because it hurts to admit, “It’s my fault, what happened to you.”

Geralt's eyebrows lift. “Oh, was that _you_ who pulled the celestial lever that makes all fiends twice as vicious?”

Jaskier’s eyes wander guiltily to the side. “Yes?”

“Hang on…you’re _actually_ blaming yourself for the fiend? This isn't a joke?” Jaskier hunches his shoulders and the witcher clicks his tongue disappointedly. “Jaskier, _for the love of fuck—_ I was _distracted_ and the beast took advantage. Nothing more than that.”

Jaskier looks up, his brow crinkled. “You don’t understand—”

“I understand _plenty_.” Geralt’s face is serious. “As much as you like to act like the world revolves around your choices, monsters have _always_ been dangerous. I have lived my entire life one mistake away from certain death. That’s the life of a witcher. It’s an occupational hazard which exists wholly outside of you.”

Jaskier’s chest fills with a restless, swarming kind of anxiety, as his concern warps into frustration. He thumps a fist against Geralt’s front. “You _don’t make_ careless mistakes like that! _This_ is what I’m trying to say. You’re not _hearing_ me.”

“Alright,” Geralt cocks an eyebrow. “So what am I missing?”

”There’s _magic_ at play here.”

The witcher leans forward a bit. The faery leans back, half-expecting Geralt to be angry with the realization. When the witcher does speak, he’s unusually animated. Almost as if he _expected_ Jaskier to say it.

”What?" he barks, quite obviously feigning shock, "You’re telling me that _magic_ had something to do with the fact that, within the span of a single day, I caught a glimpse of my own guts and ended up buried...alive? Dead?— _Did I actually_ die _today?”_

Jaskier opens his mouth to clarify, but Geralt cuts him off, “—forget it! It doesn’t matter, because I was subsequently _reanimated_ by what I can only assume was your raven, who's squatting innocently over there; and this fucking _bird_ —which I now refuse to believe is anything less than some kind of ancient and frighteningly perspicacious _demon_ —somehow knew _exactly_ where to go to lead me back to my lover, who, _by the way,_ is a _fae prince_ with _demigod-like_ abilities _. Meanwhile,_ said fae prince was busy theatrically conducting his _chorus of crows_ in the middle of—" he stops and looks around. "Wait, what _are_ you doing way out here?”

“I’m _trying_ to _apologize_ for the fact that I got you all tangled up in my personal squabble with the Universe!” Jaskier grasps at his antlers in exasperation.

Geralt tips his head back in a long sigh, but he’s smiling around it. “Dramatic bastard. You _would_ pick a fight with the literal universe—”

“ _Geralt!_ ” Jaskier shoves him the rest of the way to the ground.

“Wh—ah! _What?_ ” the witcher laughs.

Jaskier straddles him, bracing one hand against the ground and pressing the finger of his other into Geralt’s breastbone. His black wings spread wide above them. “ _You_ might not be taking this seriously—which is honestly perplexing, seeing how _you’re_ the one who got gored to bloody death, b-but—”

His sentence falls apart when the witcher takes hold of the hand on his chest and gently flattens it into a less jabby position by worming their fingers together.

Geralt says, “Listen, I go into every fight fully aware of the risks. The thought of my own death, and the acceptance of its inevitability, occurs to me as casually as wondering what I'm going to have for breakfast. So, the fact that a fiend took to shoveling my intestines like a fisherman casting a net over—”

Jaskier whips his hand out of Geralt’s grasp and presses his finger against the witcher’s lips. “ _Stop,_ Geralt. Gods! Take pity on my overactive imagination and try to restrain yourself when you feel the urge to paint such _gruesome_ landscapes in it.” The faery shivers. “The real thing was bad enough. I’ll be having nightmares for _years_.”

Geralt narrows his eyes, but growls out a hum, which Jaskier takes as a sign of reluctant compliance. The faery looks down at him sadly, softly. If the witcher still feels any pain from his injuries, he hides it well under the unrelenting snark— _the absolute horse’s ass_.

He sighs and falls back to sit on Geralt’s hips, and then asks, "How are you feeling?”

"Fine, all things considered. I’m just glad that I’m still _alive_ , somehow, and that I found you.” Geralt folds his arms behind his head, appearing oddly content. “That said, I know you did... _something_ , to me, with your powers, and that it’s got to do with you abandoning me in the woods. We need to have a serious talk about it. We can do that now, if you’re ready.”

“Are you going to listen to what I have to say? Even if it sounds crazy?”

“Yes,” Geralt says. “Speak, bard.”

Jaskier rolls off of Geralt to lay on his back next to him. It’s better this way, he thinks, because he’s finding it increasingly difficult to look the witcher in the eyes.

The raven seems to know what’s coming and takes the liberty of hopping onto the witcher’s chest. Geralt tenses momentarily, lifting his head and staring warily at the bird as it unapologetically makes itself at home, settling down like a duck in the reeds and turning itself into a feathered loaf. Geralt grumbles something at it, which Jaskier can’t quite make out, and then relaxes back onto his arms.

Silence hangs between them. Jaskier is thankful such pauses in conversation never seemed to bother the witcher. He uses this quirk to his advantage. Despite holding back an avalanche of words, he needs a moment to figure out where to start.

“You can be furious with me if you’d like.” Jaskier glances over to watch the raven's tongue and throat waggle out his gentle words. “I’m not trying to make excuses, and I don’t expect your forgiveness. I just want you to understand where I’m coming from.”

Geralt untangles one of his arms to pet the bird. “I’m listening.”

_Okay. You can do this. Just tell him the truth..._

“Shortly after the incident with Stregobor, I felt I was at-risk of _losing my mind_ with magic. I never felt so out of control, and to make things worse, the energy from the ground kept pouring itself into me, more and more and more until I was overflowing—until I was afraid my heart was going to _explode_ , and I—I didn't _ask_ it to _._ I didn’t know how to make it stop or if it were even _possible_ , a-and—" 

The witcher’s hand comes to rest between the faery’s antlers, heavy and comforting. Jaskier quickly realizes this is in response to his own body beginning to tremble. He pulls Geralt’s hand down to his chest and holds it there, taking solace in its warm weight, although he feels undeserving of the gesture.

“You alright?" Geralt asks. "Your heart is pounding...We don’t have to talk if the topic overwhelms you.”

“No. We’re doing this now.” Jaskier closes his eyes, steeling himself against the anxiety. He takes a deep breath and tries again. “I know I'm not...the _victim_ of that tragedy. I don't think I deserve anyone’s sympathy. Despite that, I’m still _haunted_ by that day."

"You're allowed to be,” Geralt says.

Jaskier mulls over the words. _Is_ he allowed to be? After all, he’s the ‘bad guy’ of that tale. Is it fair for him to be counted as one of the _casualties?_

"I told myself that I would _never_ have intentionally done something so abominable,” he continues. “I started obsessing over the idea that perhaps I didn’t have as much control over my life as I thought. Some... _bigger_ force must be pulling the strings. It was the only thing that made any sense to me.

“It made me paranoid. I swore the universe itself was conspiring against me, trying to ensure I fulfill my destiny—which was _apparently_ to become a bloodthirsty tyrant king. I tossed around the idea that Vescailla’s deal with my parents sealed my fate from the beginning, and that meeting you and Ren was all just a part of that pre-determined destiny to deliver me to her.  
  
“But, I came to realize that it wasn’t fair to blame her for my actions. Even if fate tries to nudge me in a certain direction, I always have the last word. What I did was my choice. Mine alone. I fucked up, and there’s _nothing_ I can do to fix it.”

He hesitates, giving Geralt a chance to say something like, _You’re_ _right, and I can’t_ _be with someone like you. You’re a wretched, hopeless mess, forever damned to fall prey to his passions._ _I’m giving up on you._

The witcher remains silent.

Jaskier swallows dryly and goes on, “That wasn’t the only problem. I started to notice that you were acting oddly—”

"Or maybe I was just in love,” Geralt quips.

“I’m going somewhere with this,” Jaskier huffs. “I began to _suspect_ I may have cast a _spell_ over you—Claimed you just like Vescailla did to _me_ when I was a child. So, I asked the queen about it, and it turns out I _had_ claimed you. _”_ The faery keeps his eyes firmly set on the dancing canopy above, pretending not to notice, out of the corner of his eye, Geralt looking at him, knowing the witcher’s face must betray a flood of silent, worried questions.

“So, what does that mean?” the witcher asks. “To _claim_ someone?” 

Jaskier shakes his head. “I don’t fully understand it, to be honest. Vescailla only said it can alter the fate of the claimed. Having learned this, my first fear was that I’d been bending your will in my favor, _tricking_ you into thinking you cared about me. That’s why I left you in the woods...without any warning or explanation.” He pauses. “I know, that was a piss-poor decision.”

Geralt lets out an annoyed little grumble.

Jaskier shrugs into himself. “That morning, I cut the thread connecting our souls in an attempt to return your autonomy to you. But I was terrified you would wake up and be furious with me. I didn’t want to be there when you did...I didn’t want to face the consequences of my decisions. So, I did the _cowardly_ thing and ran away."

" _That’s_ why I felt so strange afterwards. Our _souls_ were tied together? I suspected magic was involved, but I would never have guessed that."

“I'm so sorry. I acted out of ignorance, panicking because I assumed the worst. I thought cutting the thread would be the _kindest_ thing. But it was a terrible mistake, because I ended up pushing your fate onto another path where you made a deadly misstep against that fiend. _That’s_ what I was trying to explain to you earlier.”

Silence.

“So, you can play with peoples’ fates?” Geralt’s tone is more thoughtful than angry. 

“Don’t...don’t say it like that. I wasn’t _playing_.”

“Mmm. And you think you did it to us—this 'claiming' thing—by accident?...It _was_ an accident, right?”

“It certainly wasn’t _intentional."_ Jaskier feels his cheeks warming. "I-I mean, it’s true I felt drawn to you from the moment I saw you. On some level, I _did_ want you all to myself and wished more than anything for you to let me in. But, I didn’t realize I was capable of _that—_ Pox, I didn’t know I could do _any_ magic. I swear on my mother’s grave!”

"I believe you.”

"I’m _so sorry,_ Geralt _._ ”

More silence.

Jaskier chews on his lip.

“I forgive you.”

He looks at the witcher. “...you do?”

Geralt shrugs. “I’ve never been one for dramatics. Besides, you torture yourself enough as it is. I won’t pretend like you didn’t hurt me, or that I’m not frustrated. But, I understand your logic. You were trying to do what you thought was right.” A pause, punctuated by a weary sigh. “Unfortunately for me, your frantic attempt at protecting me inadvertently ended up getting me killed. But, if I’m being honest? That kind of spectacularly clumsy mistake is pretty on-brand for you.”

"Hey!”

The witcher smirks. “Anyway, I’m here _now_ , and you’re taking blame for your mistakes and apologizing. I’ll give you points for that.”

Jaskier grapples with his rising guilt. This feels too easy. “Do you _really_ forgive me?”

 _"Yes_ , Jaskier.” Geralt sounds tired.

Another silence. Jaskier wrestles some more. Pins down the guilt. He says, “There _is_ a silver lining to all of this, at least. What happened with the fiend actually helped clarify some things for me about the _nature_ of claiming. Even though the thread was broken, you were still... _still_ in love...with me...right up to your dying breath.”

"Why do you sound so surprised?"

“I just couldn't believe, after everything that happened—after you saw the _ugliest_ parts of me—that you would still love me. It made far more sense, in my mind, that magic was the thing keeping you captive by my side.”

"Well, _some_ part of you must have believed in our authenticity," Geralt says. "Because you left Stregobor's amulet with me. You wanted me to seek you out and had hope that I would.”

"I did." Jaskier frowns, thinking about those long, cold months alone. "All things considered, you sure took your time."

"Well, there were reasons for that outside of my control, but I also wanted to give you some space.”

“I made such a plowin’ mess of this.” Jaskier groans and rubs his face with his free hand. “You should know, I did tie the heart threads back together to save you. That’s where we stand. You've been re-claimed. For better or worse, we are _entangled_. But I can’t tell you what that _means_ , because I don’t know the answer.”

"I guess we’ll find out together.”

“I suppose so.” Jaskier pauses and sighs. "I should have been honest with you from the beginning, Geralt. I should’ve talked to you about what was going through my head, rather than keeping you in the dark. I was just...so _ashamed_ of myself. I didn't want to give you any more of an excuse to hate me...I guess it's _good_ you decided not to come running right back to me after you woke up in the woods. Turns out I _needed_ that time on my own to sort things out.”

“Me too. I think.” Geralt clears his throat. “Look, I know you’ve been struggling with self-worth, and you’re not used to receiving love without some sort of conditional strings attached. I know you think of yourself as this unlovable monster. But, I’ve been hoping you'd figure it out sooner or later: I _never_ saw you that way, Jas. In fact, I _adore_ you.”

The faery finds the courage to glance over at the witcher. Geralt is smiling warmly back. He gives Jaskier's hand a little squeeze. It's reassuring. But something deep within Jaskier stirs to life _just_ to revolt against it: _stop_. _You're not allowed to accept his love. You're a fuck-up. You’re a killer. You hurt him. You don't deserve this. How_ dare _you take what you haven't_ earned _?_ Jaskier almost lets go of Geralt's hand in response, but the witcher's voice distracts him first.

”I have to ask, if you’re convinced we were _fated_ to cross paths, then do you regret meeting me?”

“Gods, no.” In a small act of rebellion, Jaskier squeezes his hand tighter. “No...You’re still the _best_ thing that’s _ever_ happened to me. I just regret what a disaster I made of it.”

“Life is messy. We’re all trying our best. We all screw up sometimes. Try not to overthink it.”

The faery looks at him, considering. After so long, he finds himself teetering on the edge of agreeing. Maybe it's time he stop trying to sabotage his own happiness.

“You know I don’t believe in destiny," Geralt adds. “So I don’t buy your theory that the universe has some sort of personal grudge against you. It sounds to me like you’re in denial of your duality. Your darkness caught you with your back turned and you didn't know how to deal with it. Vescailla isn't _wrong_ to push you to explore your potential, you know. It's good to know yourself, even if what you discover hiding deep within you is disturbing. You still need to be able to look it in the eye. You need to know it intimately. That way, you’re prepared for it. You saw yourself at your worst and you recoiled out of shame, and now you don't want to risk facing it again. But your fear is only giving that darkness more power. Don’t waste time wallowing in self-hatred. Accept what happened and learn from it. Yeah? You listening, Jas?"

He's hanging onto every word.

“Thank you.” Jaskier says. The raven echoes the tightness in his voice—it doesn’t know how lucky it is, to be able to speak. “Thank you for never losing faith in me. Without you and Ren...I don’t think I’d still be here. I would’ve given up. I would’ve lost myself to my savage side, or become so _utterly disgusted_ with myself that I might’ve taken iron to my own heart.”

“Hmm. You never struck me as a quitter.”

"Maybe not...but _everyone_ has their breaking point.”

They’re quiet for a moment. Geralt says, “If you ever feel lost, need support, or a reminder that you are loved, you always have me. You should tell me if something’s not right, so I can help you. Don’t suffer in silence. _Promise_ me you won't.”

Jaskier closes his eyes, bracing himself against a rise of emotion. _Don’t cry...You always plowin’ cry._ He grits his teeth, waits for the wave to recede, and then sighs out his nose.

“Okay. I promise.”

The witcher might not believe in destiny, but Jaskier can’t shake the feeling that things are more connected than they seem. Ren and Vescailla both seemed to think that way, after all.

If that is the case, if they were _truly_ fated to meet, then the universe sending him _this_ particular person seems like a counter-intuitive move. Geralt is the reason he rebelled so hard against their perceived fate in the first place.

Geralt was never someone who demanded much of him. He never expected a ballad. He was never intent on using Jaskier's fame as leverage to get perks. It seemed he only ever wanted Jaskier. Alone. Exactly as he is.

Even after years apart, even when he did his damnedest to chase Geralt away, and even during his worst moments when he bared his fangs and flourished his horns and flaunted his darkness, the witcher remained.

Someone else might’ve fled at the mere sight of his true form. But witchers are adept at dancing with monsters.

Jaskier takes the time to let the realization sink in, until every cell in his frame sings with appreciation of it. He brings Geralt’s hand up to his face, kisses the back of it gently, and then holds it against his cheek, tilting his head into it. It's warm.

He says, “I’m sorry for trying to scare you away, for calling you a dog, for abandoning you—and for any other way I might’ve hurt you." He swallows the lump in his throat as he listens to the raven continue to speak. "I've been working to gain a better handle on my magic. I won't let my shadows consume me. I want to be _good_. I want to use my strength for peace. I'll communicate. I'll ask for help when I need it...You have my word.”

“Good." He and Geralt lock eyes, and Jaskier believes the witcher _adores_ him. "I’ll hold you to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Good at Loving You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-2--Si10YSc) by [Mother Mother](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCDRSqDdkk3tVNHaxyfOqALg)


	26. PART 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song:  
> [Neither Here Nor There](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8PAz7SeZu3Q) by [Eleisha Eagle](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCLl9fy5EJu7r5I-N5BeCVHw) (some lyrics altered)

Jaskier leans against Geralt, nestling his cheek against the round of his bare shoulder and basking in the humid heat of a late spring night. At first, he’d been hesitant to put his weight on the witcher, afraid his wound still secretly bothered him. But Geralt, who sits with his back against an old fallen oak, hasn’t betrayed a single wince of being uncomfortable. He slides his arm around the faery's slender shoulders and draws him in. Jaskier doesn’t understand the strange magic that had healed Geralt, or how much he himself actually had to do with it. Perhaps it’s best not to ask. To just be grateful for what is, and what isn’t.

The moon is still full. Frogs chirp in the trees. Bats chitter faintly, chasing moths above the canopy. Jaskier glances upwards, observing the way the tips of Geralt’s short whiskers and the slight ridges of his facial scars seemed to glow orange in the dancing firelight.

Jaskier asks, out of casual curiosity, “What do you think you would’ve done for a living, had you not been forced into witchery?”

“Mmm?” Geralt shakes his head, pulled from his mind. He looks down at the raven on his right, snuggled up against his thigh, and then at the faery on his left. “I’ve no clue. I was an infant when I was left at Kaer Morhen. This life is all I know.”

“Come on, you must have _some_ idea.”

Geralt shakes his head again. “My mind can’t separate witchery from myself.”

Jaskier says, “Well, I think you’d have made a good ostler." Geralt quivers with a soft laugh and the faery sits up. “No, really! You’re very calm, slow and gentle, so you wouldn’t spook the horses—and you’re attentive, too. You know, you care _a whole lot_ about things, Geralt, even though you like to hide behind that stoic façade.” Jaskier settles back against him and yawns. “You’re a big softie. I saw _right through_ you when I first spotted you in Oxenfurt.”

“Liar. I distinctly remember you trembling like a kitten pulled from the sewers when you first spoke to me. You were so put-off by not being received like a celebrity, you didn’t know how to react.”

“Alright, I was a _little_ nervous. But how was I supposed to react to someone glaring angrily at me, as if they were one moment away from picking me up and tossing me out the nearest window like bath water?”

“I don’t know, perhaps by having some sense of self-preservation and walking away?” Geralt says. Jaskier nudges his shoulder and the witcher grins with amusement. “I wasn’t angry _—_ at least not at _you._ I was already tired and fed up with whatever that day brought before you even introduced yourself.”

”Are you _sure_ you weren’t angry with me? I recall being fairly...annoying.”

“Not annoying. More like...confusing. You didn’t smell like hatred, or true fear. That’s _rare_ , even when I’m interacting with fellow trained fighters. Yet there you were, this slight little lark of a man, who couldn’t have known the first thing about defending himself, waltzing right up to me like I was some blushing maiden. It’s the only reason I lent you my ear, rather than getting up and leaving you mid-spiel.”

“But _then_ I offered to do something _nice_ for you—Gods forbid. That was the last straw.”

“I wasn’t about to let you stupidly endanger yourself.”

“I’ll pretend that’s the only reason, and that the suggestion didn’t simply make you uncomfortable because you didn’t think you deserved a ballad.”

“I _don’t_. I’m not some valiant knight. Besides, _you’re_ one to talk.” Geralt elbows him gently.

Jaskier grumbles to himself. Not wanting to admit the witcher was right, he busies himself readjusting his head, trying to find a position that didn’t crane his neck, but that also didn’t end with his antlers digging into his companion. He settles with falling across Geralt’s lap with a dramatic huff, resting the back of his head on his thigh.

Geralt cocks an eyebrow down at him, and then says, “You just...perplexed me.”

“Why? Couldn’t wrap your mind around someone wanting your company?”

“I just…wasn’t expecting _you_.”

The faery wrinkles his nose up at the canopy, and at the stars peeking through it, wondering what that meant. After a long pause, punctuated by the distant wails of loons, Geralt offers, “You came out of _nowhere_ , called me out, _blatantly_ disregarded my refusal to let you join the griffin hunt, started chatting with _my_ horse as if she were an old friend, danced on the dinner tables, made my medallion hum, and then _insisted_ on traveling with me.”

Jaskier rubs his nose and sniffs. “Well, when you put it _that_ way...”

“Point is, you threw me off. Despite my best efforts to remain emotionally distant, you got under my skin before I knew what was happening. By the following morning, I caught myself feeling protective of you—possessive, even—and to be honest, that _scared_ _me_ a little. I couldn’t help but think, why'd this bard choose _me?_ ”

“Well, you were a goldmine of potential song material. I was desperate for a new muse, and that desperation overpowered my natural caution.”

“So you _were_ afraid.”

The raven’s voice begins to sound drowsy, even though Jaskier was not. “No. You’re right, you would’ve picked up the scent. S’like I said, I suspected you witchers were more human than you let on, and I was right. I told you I wasn’t watching you, but I _was,_ actually, off and on, while I was performing. What was that, your third drink? What were you drowning, anyway?”

Geralt rubs his face tiredly. “Who knows. Maybe I was upset about being shirked full payment for my last contract, or was given one too many hateful looks from passersby. Perhaps the guards spit in my path on the way through the city gates and told me I was a disease-carrying mutt…I’m used to that type of treatment; I’ve accepted it as an unavoidable part of this lifestyle, but it still gets to me, sometimes. There’s a _reason_ I tend to avoid cities unless I need to restock my travel supp— _ah, shit_.”

“What?”

“Roach…” Geralt groans. “She ran off when that fiend charged me. She’s wandering the woods alone somewhere, damn it.”

“Not to worry,” Jaskier says. “I’ll send the murder first thing tomorrow. They’ll find her. You’ll see.” At this, Geralt shrugs and nods. The raven tucks its head between its wings, burying its beak in its back fluff. It blinks slowly. Jaskier continues, the raven echoing his weary sigh. The bird’s words come out slightly muffled through its feathers. “ _Anyway_ , it really is a shame, the things they say about you. We’ll earn humanity’s respect for you yet, love.”

“I have a hard time believing that. My reputation precedes me. As does the collective reputation of the generations of witchers before me. Need I remind you that I’m…” he pauses, eyes rising to the sky, thoughtful and calculating, “…sixty… _two?_ years older than you? That’s a lot of time for people to create an opinion about you.”

Jaskier waves dismissively. “Your profession isn’t as cut and dry as people like to say. It might be, for _some_ witchers. But _you_ like to make things complicated with your noble philosophizing. There are far more reasons for why you _won’t_ kill things than for why you _would_. They’re endangered, they’re intelligent, they’re sweethearts…I could go on.”

“Even if you managed to change some folk’s opinions with some witty ballad, there will always be people who don’t think we should exist at all. That our creation spits in the face of nature.”

“I don’t think you do.”

“No?”

The raven yawns. Its words become slower. “You asked what I was doing at the shrine…I was having a one-sided chat with the Green Mother herself...I don’t know if it made a difference, but you’re here…” Another yawn. “I like to think...that counts...for...something...”

“Hmm. You really think that goddess gives a shit about us?”

Silence. Geralt looks down at him, and Jaskier looks back with an amused grin, shrugging helplessly. The raven is asleep. 

  
  
The woods are dead silent. There is nothing beyond the little deer path or the narrow rows of trees that line its sides. Nothing but blackness. Blacker than the crows. Blacker than a stormy night sky. Impossibly, incomprehensibly black.

Jaskier wonders, momentarily, if he were to step off, to fall into that abyss, if there would be no escaping. He wonders if the weight of that darkness would suck him down like a black hole, if his wings would be rendered useless against it’s gravity, and if he’d fall and fall, forever.

He hurries along, but with caution, as the trail winds nonsensically like a river, and becomes increasingly suspicious that he isn’t actually getting anywhere. His eyes catch color. There's something red far ahead on the trail.

_A fox?_

He slows, surprised to find other life here, and not wanting to scare it. The fox’s eyes are white. It stares at Jaskier as he approaches, ears flipping back, hunched down, hackles raised. Then the faery takes a step too close. The fox leaps off of the trail. It’s eyes leave a glowing stream behind it, the light temporarily cutting through that darkness before it, too, is consumed by it.

Jaskier looks on with curiosity. The fox walks along the void with ease, scurrying well ahead, but pausing every so often to glance back at him. The faery keeps along the trail, observing, lagging behind, until he sees the fox dive into the featureless depths and disappear, perhaps into its den.

Jaskier keeps walking.

_Why am I here…_

The path finally opens into a familiar clearing. There is an ashy pit littered with charcoal, dry and dull. The embers are dead. Everything is dead. Except for her.

_Why is she still here?_

Ren faces away from him, with her back leaned up against a tree, arms crossed and owl-soft wings held tightly against herself. She stares out into the darkness.

“Uh, hi...” Jaskier hopes not to spook her. The sprite's shoulders hunch. She turns her head and Jaskier is once again taken aback by her ghostly eyes; Part of him still expects to be met with the saturated color of their living counterparts.

The expression on her face changes fast—He doesn’t have time to read it properly before it’s buried under a soft smile. “Jaskier...” She sounds surprised, “I was just thinking about you...I must’ve pulled your consciousness here by accident. I didn’t steal you away from a nice dream, did I?”

He shrugs lightly. “Even if you had, it’s always good to see you. If given the choice between this and a pleasant dream, I’d choose this every time.”

“You’re sweet,” Ren says, somewhat sadly, then stands and turns to face him all the way. She keeps her eyes down, busying herself with combing her fingers through her hair. The red wave is tossed loosely over the front of one shoulder, no longer woven into a neat plait. Jaskier blinks, interested. He’s never seen it down before.

“This place gives me goosebumps,” he says as he watches her work out a particularly stubborn tangle. “And not just because its cold.”

“Me too.”

“Can I ask what you’re doing, lingering in this liminal space?”

“Just am.”

He shakes his head, confused by her nonchalant tone. “Don’t you have somewhere else you could be?— _should_ be? Where are all the animals? The villagers?”

“Gone,” she sighs, letting go of her locks and falling back against the tree. Her little gray goat horns scrape against the bark. Her voice is almost wistful. “Swept away by the celestial river…Made into something new.”

“And you?”

She opens her mouth slightly, but then closes it. Her pale eyes crinkle in a look that is hard to accurately read. If he had to guess, he would say it hinted at shame. She pulls her wings around her front like a blanket, crossing her arms over her chest. She looks down at the cream and brown, ash-speckled feathers and says, “I’m fond of this form. Such lovely wings and horns. I’m reluctant to let it go...Is that silly?”

“No. I like it, too.”

She looks back up. The expression on her face deepens. Her mouth falls open again, but then snaps closed on second thought.

“There are lots of other things with wings,” Jaskier offers, unsure of what else to say that would be comforting.

Her head tilts slightly. “Do you get a say in what you become?”

“Hell if I know.”

A silence falls over them. But it isn’t like last time. This time, it aches to be filled. They stare at each other briefly, exchanging looks of mutual, vague concern.

“Wanna see something neat?” Ren says.

Jaskier shrugs and gestures for her to go on. The sprite turns away, raises a hand, then swipes it vertically down the empty space at the camp’s edge. A huge, ancient tree— _his_ tree—fades into existence. Ren turns back to him, gesturing to it, her eyebrows raised expectantly. “I can create anything I want here. Anything I have memory of, that is.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing all this time? Milling around, alone, in your memories?” He looks the illusion up and down. It’s lifelike, but still holds a certain ethereal quality which betrays it as a mere reflection of its real self. “What’s the point?”

“I don’t know,” Ren says, furrowing her brow up at those great boughs. “But I feel like I should dig through them. There’s surely a good reason for my...I mean, _yes_ …yes, I’m…trying to find something, or…no…no, that’s not…I’m _searching_ for a-a _feeling_ …? I…um…I don’t…” her voice falls into an incomprehensible mutter. She looks down at the tree’s tangled flare of roots. Her hand slowly lifts to the side of her head. Her entire form wavers slightly, like a ripple on a lake, becomes partially transparent, and splits into several mirror images, almost as if she were being pulled in multiple directions by a force unseen.

“Ren?” Jaskier whispers, unsettled. His voice becomes louder. “ _Ren._ ”

“Huh?” She flinches and spins back around to him, her outline snapping back into place.

Jaskier’s heart hurts. He takes a hesitant step towards her, but he doesn’t know what to say or do. All he has is the helpless certainly that something is _terribly wrong_.

What does he know about spirits? Everyone living, it seems, have their own ideas about what happens to souls after death. But not even the priests, firm in their faith as they are, know for certain. The only person Jaskier knows has successfully dealt with ghosts is the witcher. Geralt told him a few things about spirits during one of their many campfire chats; said that sometimes they get caught between worlds. But the reasons for why were as varied as the individuals themselves. Souls often lingered haplessly for decades, _centuries_ even, before anyone cared enough to figure out what pinned them to the physical plane. It's usually only after the locals, none of which knew the person in life, get fed up with the wailing ghost, or were terrified of the vengeful wraith it became, that they hire someone like Geralt to get rid of it.

Jaskier shirks at the thought of it coming to that.

“Sorry, did—did I space out again?” Ren asks, rubbing her forehead. She winces. Jaskier half expects her to blush, but then remembers she had no blood. Not here. Not even in her rotting corpse. _Fuck that wizard._

“Is something bothering you?” Jaskier asks gently. “Maybe something from your life that was left unresolved?”

“I can’t remember. I’m sorry…I can’t remember…” She turns away, shoulders hunched. Her form starts to warp again. Jaskier takes hold of her shoulder, afraid she’ll disappear on him. She _feels_ physical, but also cold and electric, like her atoms are coming loose and swimming into his nerves. The tingling feeling climbs slowly up his arm, ending only once she side steps out of his grasp.

“I’m just a little stuck, I think,” she says, eyes set on the ghost’s purse tree. “I don’t know why. But it’s fine. I’m not worried. After all, I have all the time in the world to figure it out.”

“Tell me what you know,” Jaskier says. “What happened since you got here? Maybe I can help you.”

She turns to look at him for a brief moment, wide-eyed, once again teetering on the edge of something. "Alright,” she says with a resigned sigh, and waves a hand lazily, painting a wooded landscape and a river running alongside it.

Jaskier looks on, confused. _I don’t recognize this place._

Ren sings.

 _For so_ _long, like I was a leaf  
Clung to the branch of a dying tree  
Turn in rhythm, missing home  
Said I’d make the best of the rest, then I'd go  
Until one day, I gave up on that  
Begging for water, the abyss pulled back  
It wished me well  
The well was dry_

 _So I was pulled down towards the river  
Instinct ensuring my soul was delivered  
But no, no way, I started to flee  
_ _I wouldn’t belong to eternity_

_The secret of life  
Now I've got the key,  
I've got the key,  
I've got the key  
But I can't find the lock  
So it's no use to me_

She lifts her arms in a relaxed shrug and begins to walk down the trail.

_La dee da da da  
I'm not worried  
La dee da da da  
Haven’t a care  
La dee da da da  
I'm happy though I'm  
Neither here nor there  
I'm neither here nor there_

She struts confidently along the riverside. Jaskier follows, his gut filling with the weight of increasing concern. The water glistens like the night sky.

_I followed the trail of a snail and it led  
Down to the banks of the river bed, and oh  
It shimmered when the light hit it  
But that's not the point—  
And I'm scared that you’ll miss it—_

_See, it doesn't matter  
How long it takes  
How long it takes  
How long it takes  
I'm getting further every single day_

She wraps an arm around the smooth trunk of a beech tree and swings lazily around it.

_La dee da da da  
I'm not worried  
La dee da da da  
Haven’t a care…_

She waves her hand perfunctorily, conjuring a shadow of the drunken wolf, whose ribs are littered with arrows, and who stands on two legs. She takes it by its forepaws and pulls it into a waltz.

_Now I have danced with many who'll be  
Deep in celestial creeks  
But I no longer see them  
I don't need them  
I don't need them!_

She lets the animal go. It grins and stumbles backwards over the bank’s edge and into the water. Jaskier watches after it. It explodes into a school of silvery minnows and swims swiftly downstream.

 _..._ _La dee da da da  
I'm not worried  
La dee da da da  
Haven’t a care  
La dee da da da  
I'm happy though I'm  
Neither here nor there  
I'm neither here nor there…_

“I’m fine,” she says, stopping and turning to face him. She smiles; He knows better. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll figure this out—I’ve _been_ figuring it out. You’ve got your own problems, so don’t…please don’t make this one of them.”

“ _But_ —” Jaskier stiffens when the woodland begins to fade around him. A dreadful feeling hits the pit of his stomach as the fear of the abyss catches up to him. The ground begins to warp. He wobbles as his feet slip down unevenly, like he’s sinking into mud.

“Wait! H-Hold on!” he cries. He flails his arms and flaps his wings to stay balanced as the ground shifts faster. The darkness yawns beneath him. The sprite fades like a flickering candleflame. He reaches for her. “Ren, _please._ Please, wait! I want to help you!”

“It was good to see you, Jaskier.”

Gone.

Jaskier drops. He flaps desperately. The darkness sticks to his feathers like tar. His stomach climbs into his throat. He looks down. Something starts to materialize far below him. Something soft. Something red. Something metallic.

The fox has its foot caught in a trap. But it’s not paying the wicked contraption any mind. Its staring up at him hungrily with those wide, burning-white eyes like stars. As Jaskier falls towards it, it grows in his vision, quickly becoming monstrous in size—as big as a house.

It opens its jagged jaws wide. Jaskier goes rigid. He shuts his eyes and curls into himself, listening to the sharp, earsplitting sound of teeth snapping against teeth from all sides. His entire body fills with that same electric buzz, his muscles aching with rigidity.

He yells her name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I Talk in My Sleep](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s1IrZnIdMTw) by [The Crane Wives](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCoPTtb6E_Z6J7gVa6E8Z_Jw)


	27. Chapter 27

“… _Jaskier_. Wake up, damn it.”

The faery's eyes open and he sits up fast, nearly headbutting the witcher leaning over him. He looks around; Back on solid earth and dappled morning sun. He takes a moment to catch his breath. A sadness, one whose flavor he has no name for, lingers in the corners of his body.

“You alright?” asks Geralt. “You kept repeating Ren’s name.”

“There’s something off,” says the raven, perched on the fallen oak behind the witcher. Jaskier rakes a hand through his hair and stares at the ground.

“Off? In what way?”

“It’s Ren. She’s…” Jaskier shakes his head, still trying to process the interaction, “… _coming apart_ , or something. I-I don’t know.”

The witcher stands and dusts himself off. “It was just a dream.”

“No. It’s really her. She’s…what do you witchers call it, when there’s a spirit that can’t move on?”

“Pinned?” Geralt’s tone lowers and his brow wrinkles, clearly troubled by the clarification.

“That’s it.”

“Did she tell you why?”

“She can’t remember,” the faery says, and then sticks his lower lip out in a pout. “Geralt, she shut me out! Said she doesn’t want to add to my problems. It’s a load of horse shit. Doesn’t she know by now I’d fight a whole _hoard_ of basilisks if it meant she’d be ok?”

“That’s very noble—and _stupid_ , of you,” Geralt says with a smirk.

“Be serious! What the hell am I supposed to do?”

The witcher’s gaze falls to the ground. He rubs his chin; Jaskier listens to the sound of his gloved hand scratching against his short beard. “It’s probably best to let it be, for now.”

“What?”

“Spirits are not monsters. This situation requires a certain amount of…hmm…tact? You can’t rush headlong into it.”

Jaskier doesn’t like that answer; doesn’t feel he has time to wait around for the sake of tact. His breath quickens, but he reels himself in, biting his lip to keep himself from spitting something he’d regret. He settles with pulling in his knees and hiding beneath the dark cloak of his encircled wings.

“Geralt,” he whines, “I can’t just do _nothing._ ”

“You’re not. You’re being strategic. If you try and force her to move on too soon, she might dig her heels in and you’ll end up making things worse," the witcher says. Jaskier quickly rubs away the tears that are forming in his eyes without his permission. He feels Geralt hook his fingers under the little pair of claws on the wrists of his wings, and then give them a gentle tug. “Come on.” The witcher’s voice is so soft, it fills Jaskier’s chest and consumes the tightness of uncertainty in it. “We’ll solve that problem when it presents itself again. You have my word. For now, we’ve got other work to do.”

The faery unfurls slowly. “What work is that?” He allows the witcher to pull him to a stand by the thumbs of his wings, and decides to trust Geralt’s professional judgement.

“Roach is still lost, for one thing,” he says.

Jaskier nods and mentally calls out to his flock. “Alright, what else?”

“I’ve got to retrieve that fiend’s head and take it back to the mayor of Gors Velen.”

“Right, you were working a contract when I found you. Is the pay good, at least? It had better be, for the trouble that beast gave you.”

“There’s no pay.”

“What? Why the hell not?”

“It was in exchange for getting out of jail early.”

“ _What?_ ”

“I went to the nearest city after waking up in the woods, in search of some decent alcohol, and a distraction. Long story short, turns out I was a wanted man there, and I was promptly apprehended, disarmed and locked away.”

“Wanted? Whatever for?”

Geralt shifts his weight and breaks eye contact. He focuses his attention on the crows that are beginning to arrive, one by one, perching in the trees around them. “The alderman of that little village you destroyed? He survived, rounded up the children you orphaned…” Jaskier grasps the bases of his antlers and hunches into himself. _Orphans?! Oh, gods…I’m the_ worst _kind of monster—_ Geralt doesn’t notice him, still watching the birds, and continues without pause, “…brought them to Gors Velen, and _promptly_ told the mayor all about the incident—with great theatrics and exaggeration, I presume. The mayor was unhappy that I hadn’t killed you, despite being present during the incident.”

Jaskier wilts. “I put you in a terrible position, making you choose between myself and those people on the spot…made you look like a heartless bastard.” He shakes his head. “I wanted to help your reputation, but all I’ve done is perpetuate the stereotypes.”

Geralt’s eyes flick back down to meet his. Jaskier has trouble reading his expression, and feels as lost as he had the first time they’d talked. The witcher is on the defense. Not good.

“Perhaps,” Geralt says flatly. “But that’s not what he put me away for. It was for trying to stop Stregobor.” Jaskier’s body becomes rigid at the sound of the name and the imagery it provokes. Geralt goes on, “The mayor called my actions ‘interfering with justice.’ _Justice!_ ” He gives a soft, bitter laugh. “That’s what they call ridding the area of an intelligent race because they find them to be a nuisance.”

Worry, cold and heavy, begins in Jaskier’s gut and swims into his limbs. “So, it’s true? They want to wipe us out? Entirely?”

Geralt’s frown deepens. “Seems that way. But their arguments, aside from what _you’ve_ done, are based entirely on lies and assumptions. I listened to people spitting rumors about you in the tavern. Nobody there knows fuck-all about the fae.”

“Regular folks are talking about _me_ as far north as Gors Velen?” Jaskier’s hands return to hang on his antlers as he hunches back into himself. “Oh…ooh, boy…that’s not good…that’s _really_ not good…” He winces, his voice raising an octave as he says, “I’ve made a big mess. Vescailla’s going to have my head.” He laughs nervously.

“She’d have to go through me first.”

“Geralt,” the raven’s voice wavers, “I acknowledge your sentiment, but please don’t mess with her. You have no idea the kinds of things she’s capable of. You think _I_ was bad before? My mother, she—she could raze _kingdoms_ with her wrath. A witcher would pose as much threat to her as a horsefly to, well, a horse…Don’t give me that look. She’s like a harpy on fisstech!”

Geralt crosses his arms and looks away. Seconds later, a pair of crows land on his shoulders. They begin to play with his hair. He pays them no mind, apparently deep in thought.

Jaskier breaks the silence. “The tavern patrons, what exactly did they say about me?”

“That you steal babies, for one thing.”

“Bollocks!”

“That was the only lie. The rest was true, albeit exaggerated,” Geralt says. Jaskier bites his tongue. The witcher turns towards him again. His face is grave. “They didn’t speak about you like you were a casual drowner, or griffin or ghoul. They spoke about you like you were the stuff of nightmares and legends."

The bard swallows. "Really?"

"Jaskier, you did something horrible, irreversible, and _entirely_ uncalled for. You _know_ that.”

Hearing the words come from the witcher feels like an iron brand to the heart. His breath catches. Despite everything; the long talks, the patience, the forgiveness, Geralt’s eyes still hold disappointment in him. It will probably never fade entirely. He'd told Geralt how deeply he regretted it, and that he’d do better. He'd promised Ren the same—and the gesture was sincere. But his words are empty without the weight of action to give them substance. He knows, deep down, he’ll live the rest of his days decorating that promise with little acts of good.

Geralt takes a step towards him. “They want your head, Jas. _Yours,_ specifically, and likely the rest of the faes’ while they’re at it. You need to go home. Warn your people.”

“Alright.” Jaskier hunches over meekly.

The crows cackle noisily in the trees, jostling and teasing one another. Geralt frowns at them like he were watching a bunch of rowdy school kids. Jaskier levels with the witcher, holding out his arms authoritatively. _Settle down_ , he says. The birds focus their attention onto him. He goes on: _The witcher's horse, a dark bay, is lost in these woods somewhere. Would you all be willing to search for her? Tell me where she is?  
_

_We will find her, brother,_ one of them says. The rest of the crows caw in agreement, then take off, rather noisily, scattering in all directions.

Geralt waits until their raucous calls become muted by distance. The sound must have reminded him of something, because he asks, “How did you find me, back in that field, with the fiend? You mentioned having seen my injuries. That means you being there wasn’t my imagination after all.”

Jaskier is caught off guard. “Oh, I, um…I had a nightmare.” His eyes fall to the puckered scar across the witcher’s belly, then rise quickly back up to meet his gaze. The sight of the wound makes his spine prickle. “A nightmare about you. It was so realistic. I think...the raven may have sent it to me, as a warning. Then, the crows woke me. They were frantic…they led me to that meadow, and…and…” He shakes his head, trying to free his mind of the grisly imagery that begins to assault him. The sharp echo of yesterday’s fear rolls against his chest. “You know...I-I’d rather not talk about it.”

The witcher steps towards him and offers a hand. Jaskier takes hold of it, attempting to use it as a physical anchor to pull himself out of the mental storm. His attention fixates on the woven fingers, bare and gloved, raking over their details. 

But then he notices the meadow dirt still stuck beneath his own nails and his thoughts are sent ricocheting down a trail of mental associations. Before he can blink, his mind plummets right back into that panic. He lets Geralt go, beginning to feel dizzy, and sinks to sit on the ground.

“Jas?” Geralt crouches in front of him, brow furrowed.

The faery pulls his knees in, and runs his hands over his face and through his hair. He starts to take slow, conscious, calculated breaths. He eventually manages to gather his thoughts enough to get the raven to mumble, “Sorry, I just…need a moment.”

Silence. More deep breaths. Jaskier swallows down a wave of nausea.

“It’s ok. I’m here. I’m _fine_ ,” Geralt says.

The meaning of the words are slow to penetrate Jaskier’s racing thoughts, but the witcher’s soft, uniquely-comforting gravelly voice hits his core instantly. He latches onto the sound.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Hey. Can you look at me?" The faery forces himself to unfold a little. He stares expectantly at the witcher, eyes wide with danger imagined. Geralt searches that gaze for a moment. The concern on his face deepens. “Was it that bad?”

The question sends anger swirling into Jaskier’s stomach, adding itself to the mixture of emotions already flopping around _uselessly_ in there like a bunch of beached whales. _Of-plowing-course it was!_ The faery fights to keep his voice even, his next words coming out slowly and carefully, “I’m going to ignore that question, because I know what you are, that you’re accustomed to such gruesome sights, and that you’ll _never_ understand that level of fear.”

Geralt’s mouth twists to the side and his nose wrinkles a little. He sighs, sounding weary, and more accurately his age, and says, “You’re right. I am, and I don’t.”

He stands slowly. Jaskier watches him for a moment; sees him shift his weight from one foot to the other, cross his arms, turn away, look at the canopy, then down at his boots, fiddle with his belt, adjust his sword strap, then puff out his cheeks and let his breath go in a quiet sigh. Guilt begins to trickle down the faery’s ribs; he begins to wonder if that was an unnecessarily harsh thing to say.

The raven flies to land on the witcher’s shoulder. It says, gently, “Sorry...I know it’s not your fault.”

Geralt glances back at Jaskier. He too, looks saddled with guilt. “I didn’t mean for that question to come across as callous. I just…I don’t remember much from it. It's a big, blank, pain-filled breach in my mind. I only asked out of genuine curiosity. But…I could’ve just guessed the answer from your reaction alone.”

Jaskier pins his trembling hands in the space between his belly and his thighs, trying to regain control of them. “Apology accepted. Can we stop discussing it?”

“Yes. But I can’t promise you won’t be reminded of it.” Geralt’s eyes fall to his belly. He slowly, almost inquisitively, sweeps his fingers over the scar. “I don’t think this is going away any time soon.”As Jaskier brings himself to a shaky stand, Geralt adds, “I’ll buy some new armor while I’m in town. It’ll cover the wound. Meanwhile, you should warn Asper and Vescailla about possible human attack.”

The faery says, “Alright...Once I’m done, I’ll wait for you, at the forest’s edge, at the crossroads between Temeria and Cidaris—with the cantankerous Lady Roach, I hope.” Geralt nods. "Be careful among the humans. Don't cast yourself as their enemy.”

"I'm not their enemy."

"Not now, perhaps. But you can't ignore that things are slowly coming to a head...you'll be forced into choosing, and not necessarily by my forgiving hand.”

"I try to remain neutral when it comes to conflicts of this nature."

"Key word being 'try.' You _care too much_. Besides, how can you stay neutral when I'm involved? Geralt?"

The witcher glances back at the faery, his expression once again frustratingly unreadable. He then turns and starts down the trail he walked in on. The raven returns to Jaskier's antlers.

"See you in a few days, Jas."


	28. Chapter 28

Hidden on his side of the veil, Jaskier soars above the trees toward home, trying not to over-analyze the witcher’s parting words.

 _You’re interpreting a neutral tone as negative,_ the bard repeats to himself, pushing his creeping anxieties down _._ _He_ loves _you, you insecure bastard…_ Of course _he’d fight for you if things ended up escalating. You really have the nerve to doubt that? What’s the matter with you?_

 _Looks like there’s trouble ahead, Crowling,_ says the raven, flying just above him.

Jaskier pulls himself out of his head and looks some way into the distance, where his eyes catch swift movement. Seconds later, a high-pitched scream rings out across the woods. His gut twists at the sound and he dips immediately towards it.

He notices a young girl, no more than four or five years of age, cornered against a mossy boulder. A creature is looming over her. It's similar to a fiend, but smaller, with a sturdy pair of ram-like horns. Most of its muscle mass is contained in his shoulders, making it appear top-heavy. A lion-like tail lashes agitatedly behind cloven-hooves.

The girl clumsily waves a dagger in its face and slashes it across the bridge of its snout. The monster reels back and shakes its head, tossing a dark brown mane. Then, it bellows in her face. The sound is long, rough and low like a giant bison. The child shrieks and tries to stand, but she wobbles and drops back to the earth. It seems her leg is injured.

Jaskier pulls in his wings and makes a sharp dive for the pair. As he drops, he throws on his leshen glamour. The bits of forest sweep together and rise high into the air to meet him. It isn’t much, but he figures the wood of the disguise will provide some light armor, and the skull, a helmet.

He lands heavily on the monster’s back, grabbing fistfuls of its mane. The girl lets out another shriek at the sight of him. The monster startles and moans angrily, rearing and grasping for the leshen with its hand-like paws, but its shoulder joints aren’t quite flexible enough to reach him. Jaskier grits his teeth and yanks at its fur, struggling to stay balanced as the beast begins to buck. It turns in a circle, and once it’s facing away from the girl, Jaskier leaps off of its back and roars at it, keeping its attention fixed on him.

The beast stares him down; It’s undoubtedly a chort—Jaskier recognizes it from descriptions of the witcher’s past exploits. It lowers its head and stamps its forelegs like it’s preparing to charge. Jaskier must think quickly. He's weaponless and without the luxury of rushing in headlong like Geralt is apt to do.

Thanks to the witcher, Jaskier knows most monsters, contrary to popular belief, are not mindless killing machines. Rather, like animals, they often have to be provoked into attacking. Sometimes it's out of hunger, other times defense. The chort, for example, is a highly territorial creature, and likely does not discriminate between the little girl and a true intruding threat.

Jaskier can’t converse with monsters like he can other animals. Monsters are not of this world, and so are not connected to Gaia. Thus, his fae gifts don’t reach their minds. He decides to chance sending it a message another way: by overpowering it and “claiming” its territory for himself.

The leshen bows slightly, tipping down his skull and showing off the huge set of antlers. He slowly tilts his head from side to side like a bull moose. The chort lowers its head and takes a single step back, appearing slightly intimidated. It chuffs and stamps its hoof, then curls back its lips to display it’s impressive array of knife-sized canines.

Jaskier waits, but the chort holds its ground. He tries another roar, but it only spurs the chort into a charge. The faery moves quickly, raising roots, digging his heels into the dirt, lifting his arms and lowering his head to clash antlers with horns. He uses the vines and his hands in tandem to brace against what would’ve been a neck-breaking impact.

The chort is stiff, as solid as a mountain, and keeps walking slowly forward, forcing Jaskier back. The faery widens his stance and starts pushing with all his might, bringing them to a full stop. They remain firm and still there for a moment, both of them bearing equal strength. Jaskier is unsettled by the chort’s third eye, set in the center of its forehead, with its pupil set directly on him. A cold shot of fear shoots through him—he remembers that a _fiend’s_ third eye wielded blinding magic, but quickly recalls that a chort’s, although closely related, does not carry the same power.

Taking confidence in the certainties he’s gained in listening to the witcher’s ramblings, and Jaskier presses forward with the roots using all his might. The chort takes a pair of stumbling steps backwards. Beginning to lose ground, it bellows again. The deep sound rattles Jaskier’s ribs, but he doesn’t yield.

Suddenly, the monster tears itself away from him, breaching to the side and running in a wide circle. It tosses its head angrily and nearly tramples the little girl, who squeaks and presses herself flat against the boulder. The chort swings back around to charge at Jaskier with greater vigor. The leshen waits until the last second, then dives out of the way. The beast crashes head-first into an old yew. The sound of cracking wood echoes through the forest, and the tree falls with a loud crash, sending nearby birds shrieking into the sky.

The chort remains on its feet, but stumbles and shakes its head dizzily. Jaskier side-steps behind it, standing between the creature and the girl, glancing back only once through those bony eye sockets to make sure she was alright. The girl is shivering with her back pressed against the boulders, as pale as an old bone, but otherwise fine.

Breathing heavily, the chort shakes itself like a wet dog and turns to face the leshen. Blood is dripping from its nostrils. It charges again. Jaskier is ready for it. He digs in his heels and once again locks headgear, bracing himself with the help of the roots. The beast pushes him backwards several feet, until Jaskier can hear the little girl’s shuddering breaths and little whines _right_ behind him. He bristles, not having intended to bring the fight so close to her.

The monster’s heaving breaths are hot on his front. It claws at the dirt, gaining leverage. Jaskier snakes the roots around the chort’s torso. Mustering the rest of his strength, he picks the beast up with the vines and _slams_ it down onto its side. It lands heavily, with its own mass working against it.

Jaskier picks it up a second time and throws it to the opposite side of the little clearing. It rolls to a rough stop against a cluster of trees. There it lays, for a long moment, stunned, before bringing itself to a slow, aching stand. It glares at him with all three eyes, bellows weakly, then turns and limps away. Jaskier leans forward and roars once more, for good measure. The chort picks up into an awkward canter and disappears into the brush with its tail between its legs.

The faery watches after it. Once it's out of sight, he turns to look at the little girl. She is staring back with wide eyes, looking no less afraid of him than she was of the chort. Jaskier feels guilty, wholly aware of how terrifying he must appear. Should he reveal his true form? She’s young, alone and clearly needs help, and he knows she isn’t going to be receptive toward a giant, lumbering leshen.

Jaskier pulls himself to the human side of the veil, and then drops the glamour, slowly, so not to startle her. Nevertheless, the girl gasps and crawls clumsily around the edge of the boulders as the wood, moss, and bones fall away to reveal shining black feathers and antlers.

Jaskier crouches in front of her, leaving a few feet of space. She stares up at him, quivering and keeping the iron blade between them. He eyes the weapon, outwardly calm, but unable to completely quell his nervousness about the deadly material being in such unpredictable hands. Most children her age haven’t quite grasped the permanence of death.

“Are you ok?” he asks, trying to appear soft despite his jarring silhouette. “It’s safe now. That chort won’t bother you anymore.”

The girl’s eyes dart over to the talking raven, perched nearby, and then back to him, her confusion appearing to deepen. Her hair is dark, curly and wild; It bounces when she turns her head. Her skin is warm brown, the likes of which one doesn’t see often this far north. She wears dark trousers and a plain, knee-length linen tunic, which is covered in small, hastily patched-up holes.

The raven flies to land on the faery’s antlers and the girl shies away from it. She once again tries to stand, but is unable to put her weight on one leg. Her knee is scuffed up and the ankle is swollen and starting to show bruising. She falls forward onto her hands and groans in pain.

Jaskier resists the urge to reach out to her, afraid he’ll only frighten her worse. Instead, he gestures upwards to the raven and says, “Don’t worry, it won’t bite. I don’t have a voice, so the bird speaks for me.”

He waits. The girl only stares at the odd pair, brow furrowed in bewilderment and fear. Jaskier sighs inwardly and decides to try something else. He sits cross-legged, turning away from her and trusting her not to plunge the blade into his ribs. Then, he removes his lute from his aching back and begins to strum it softly, playing a well-known lullaby; the same one he grew up with, which warned of the dangers of leshens roaming in the deep woods. The raven hums along, wordlessly.

In his mild shame, Jaskier is unable to think of any other songs at the moment.

A few of the gentle, haunting stanzas go by, and then he finally hears her speak.

“I know that song...Are you gonna eat me?”

Jaskier glances back at her. She flattens herself back against the rock and raises the dagger again.

“No. Humans taste funny.”

It’s clear she doesn’t believe him. He fixes his attention back down on the vibrating strings.

“But…you’re a leshy, just like in the song?”

“Yes.”

“And you _don’t_ eat people?”

He slowly shakes his head, continuing to play.

“If you’re really a leshy, then how come you don’t _look_ like one anymore?”

Jaskier has to think on the answer for a moment. “It’s like…a costume. I wear it only when I need to scare bad things away. This is how I normally look.”

“But leshens don’t play _music_.”

“You’re right. They don’t. Their fingers are too stiff and clumsy. But _I_ do.”

“Well, if you’re _not_ a leshy right now, then what are you?”

He twists his lips, debating whether or not to tell her the truth. “A friend?” he tries, with a little shrug. He glances back at her again. This time, she doesn’t shrink away from his gaze.

“What?” she shrieks, sitting forward to lean on her hands. She still holds tightly onto the dagger. “Monsters and humans can’t be _friends_.”

“Really?”

“Really!”

“If you say so.” He sighs, playing up sadness, and sets the lute on the ground beside himself. “I’m _so_ lonely though. Nobody wants to be my friend. It’s not _my_ fault I was born a monster…woe is me!” He dramatically flops onto his back, throws an arm across his forehead and closes his eyes. The raven flutters to his lap. After a long silence, he hears her small voice by his head.

“Hmm. You saved me, so _I guess_ we can be friends.”

Jaskier peeks one eye open and finds her leaning over him, eyeing him cautiously, but inquisitively. She wrinkles her nose down at a wing and prods curiously at the little dewclaw on the wrist. The faery sits up slowly, unable to help his amused grin. The girl’s attention moves to his pair of fangs. She pokes at her own incisors with her finger, and then looks…disappointed? Adorable.

“What are you doing out here, all alone?” he asks.

“I wanted to pick some berries.” She tugs at the strap of a deerskin bag, much too large for her size, which is slung across her front. “I wanted to surprise my momma. She’s sleeping, in that cave, over there.” She points to an opening at the base of a rocky, wooded hill, some distance away. “But I didn’t find any berries, and then that monster came after me.”

“It’s a bit early in the season for berries,” he says, and stands, pushing away the urge to chastise her for doing something so reckless. It isn't his place to parent her, anyway. She pouts. He shrugs helplessly at her, but then an idea comes to him. “Maybe I can fix that.”

She blinks up at him. His grin widens, and he reaches out to the side and wriggles his fingers, putting a little extra flair in the gesture. From the earth, a mass of brambles sprout, growing tall and leafy before arching with height and tangling amongst themselves. The girl’s mouth falls open as she watches the plants burst with stark white flowers. Then, the flowers wilt and their bases swell, becoming dark and shiny. In a matter of seconds, they’re met with enough blackberries to fill her bag three times over.

The girl tries to stand, so surprised that she forgets about her injury. She falls and winces, but doesn’t cry, too enraptured by the sight to care.

“You’re _magic?_ ”

Jaskier nods, having impressed even himself. He plucks a berry from a cane and eats it. It’s perfectly firm, and tastes like any other blackberry, except it’s seedless; the plant spurred into fruiting without having been pollinated.

Jaskier helps the girl fill her bag and then squats to level with her. He offers a hand. “Alright, come on. Let’s get you back to your mother. If she’s awake, she’s probably worried sick about you.”

The girl’s guardedness briefly returns to her. She looks him in the eyes for a long moment, as if searching them for something. Then, apparently satisfied with what she finds, she tucks her knife in the pocket of the bag and leans forward to wrap her hands around his neck, allowing him to pick her up. He braces her bottom half, and she wraps her twiggy legs around his waist and rests her chin on his shoulder.

He feels her reach upwards and quickly says, “Don’t touch the antlers. They’re _very_ sharp.”

“Aww,” she whines.

As he walks, he feels her picking curiously at his little covert feathers. The mild, half-hearted sensation of her fingers makes him itch, as if there were a little insect crawling on him. Without a free hand to scratch it, he jerks his wings up and out of her reach. The girl sits up in surprise, and he has to readjust his grip from the shift in her weight.

“Stop wiggling,” he says.

“Can you fly?”

“Of course I can fly.”

“Can we fly _now?_ ”

“No. You’re too heavy to carry.”

“But _dragons_ can carry _entire cattle_ from the fields.”

“Do I look like a dragon to you?”

“No,” she sighs, and plops her chin back onto his shoulder. After a long moment of silence, she mumbles, “If you’re magic, can you grant wishes?”

He rolls his eyes. He can feel the raven’s weight pull his head to one side, as it leans down far to speak to her from its bony perch. “I'm no djinn, either.”

One of her arms leaves his neck to reach for the bird. Jaskier must adjust his grip on her again. The raven makes a cooing sound he’s never heard it make.

They approach the cave, and Jaskier sighs with relief—his arms are beginning to kill him—but stops short when a woman emerges from it, nearly throwing herself from its mouth.

“Clover? Where are you?” she calls.

Startled, Jaskier instinctively jumps to the other side of the veil, making himself, the raven, _and_ the little girl invisible.

“ _Clover?_ ” The woman moves towards them. Jaskier stiffens when he notices the glint of metal in her hand. Thinking quickly, he sets the girl down on the ground, places a hand on top of her head to send her back to the human world, and then quickly backs away. The mother catches sight of her on the other side of a shrub, falls to her knees, drops the knife and scoops Clover into her arms, hugging her tightly. “Oh, gods, there you are! Are you alright? Where did you run off to? How many times do I have to tell you to stay close to me? Don’t you know how dangerous the woods are?”

Clover isn’t paying attention to her. She’s turning her head wildly, searching for the faery. “Where did you go? Don’t you wanna meet my momma?”

“Who are you talking to?” the mother says, sitting up and staring at her.

“The leshy!”

“ _L-Leshy?_ ” The mother’s eyes widen. She pulls Clover in close and looks around.

Clover grunts in protest and wiggles out of her grip. “That’s right! I was attacked by a _huge_ chort!” She waves her arms, trying to catch her mother’s eye, but the mother continues to scan their surroundings. “I tripped and hurt my leg. I thought I was gonna be _eaten_. But then a nice leshy saved me and carried me back here.”

The mother, after a long, silent moment, relaxes a little and returns her attention back to her daughter. “This isn’t another one of your made-up stories, is it?”

“No! It’s really real!” Clover balls her little hands into fists and sticks out her lower lip. “He was just here! The nice leshy turned into a man, you see, with these _big_ wings and pointy antlers like a deer—” She theatrically mimes Jaskier’s features with her hands. The mother’s eyes narrow skeptically. “—oh, and he played music for me! And he has a pet raven that can talk! And he made blackberry plants grow right in front of us, because he’s _magic!_ Look, momma!”

Clover opens the flap of her bag, revealing the glistening fruits. The mother’s mouth falls slack. She picks one up and holds it up to the light, then squishes it in between her fingers and sniffs the juice. “Smells normal, but they’re…seedless? What in the world…?”

Clover looks around again. Wilting back into a pout, and looking almost betrayed. “Why did he run away? I wish you could’ve met him.”

Jaskier frowns down at her from where he stands a few meters away, guilt weighing on him. It was far too dangerous to make himself known. Best he’s chalked up as nothing but a child’s tall tale. It’s better that way.

The mother looks softly at the girl, clearly sympathetic. Then, she sheathes her blade and picks her daughter up with a grunt. “Come on, little bard. Back to camp. We have two days’ trip before reaching Gors Velen. Maybe three, since you’ve bumped your leg. I’ll have to carry you.”

“Okay…” Clover sighs, slumping against her. “Will they have more berries in the city?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“They’re out of season,” she says, sounding a little mystified. “Won’t be ripe for another few weeks.”


	29. Chapter 29

Geralt spent a few hours walking while awkwardly carrying the fiend’s head—which was as large as a crate and full of uncomfortable pointy bits—without so much as a rope to sling over his shoulder. His way was consequently slow and his muscles ached. He could’ve stuck around Jaskier until his crows managed to track down Roach, but that may have taken days. Meanwhile, the fiend would’ve sat rotting in the late spring heat. Geralt's acute sense of smell wouldn’t tolerate the offensive scent, and his horse wouldn’t have been thrilled about it, either.

Besides, he wanted to distance himself from the faery, temporarily. Jaskier put him on the spot, pushing him to make a pivotal choice prematurely. He didn’t want to get into an argument, and so left before he said something in his ever-frank tone that might offend the bard’s sensitivities.

Geralt hoped the conflict between the humans and fae could be solved without his needing to involve himself. It certainly wasn’t in his plans to go out of his way to make enemies. He quite literally couldn’t afford that.

It’s poor business practice, gathering foes, for a man who relied on those very folks for employment, lodging, and supplies, and who had every right to refuse him service. While it was true that Geralt will work for just about anyone, the vast majority of his contracts came from humans. If word spread that he's been fraternizing with the fae, Geralt worries that entire kingdoms could close their doors to him. People barely tolerate his kind to begin with.

He was able to excuse himself from doing so little against Jaskier, when he’d attacked that village, by swallowing that as unflattering stereotype: witchers never work for free, and are lacking in empathy, equally monstrous as the beasts they were made to slay.

If it had to be that way, fine.

As for inserting himself between Ren and Stregobor...well, that could be brushed off as a one-time thing—as Geralt being _Geralt_ —as he is at times known for being picky about what he killed, especially if the monster in question hadn’t been proved to have done anything wrong.

Ren was an observer; she hadn’t hurt anyone in that town. But Vescailla, who barks the orders to send leshens after loggers and trappers, is not as easily sided with. And Jaskier went and spoiled his image as well, killing innocents with his grief-fueled outburst. Consequently, Geralt isn't...enthusiastic about announcing that he's publicly on their side.

He’s not sure he _is_ in support of them, if he’s being honest with himself. Jaskier as an _individual_ —yes. But the fae as a whole? That’s a different story.

But what will happen once Jaskier takes the throne? It will get harder to maintain a neutral appearance. An outsider’s thoughts would no longer be, “Oh, Geralt has another nonhuman friend.” They will be, “Hmm. Geralt sure seems close with the _Fae king_ , and that’s suspicious as hell. We can’t trust him.”

He can’t risk losing his livelihood like that. He's _a witcher_. Nothing more, nothing less. Hunting monsters is the sole thing he was created for—and it’s the only thing he's good at. If his contracts are cut off...he'd be lost. He simply wouldn’t know what to do with himself. His entire _life’s purpose_ will be gone, and his very _existence_ will lose all meaning.

It's as Geralt said the previous night: his mind can’t separate himself and witchery. He has _no_ comprehension of a different way of life—and never felt the need to figure it out, as he always assumed he'd be killed while on contract. It already happened, after all. He would be rotting alongside that fiend right now, were it not for the strange magic the fae prince used to weave his soul back into his frame.

Jaskier once told him, if he were ever forced to hang up his lute, that he would take up gardening. The bard had a backup plan, because the bard had been afforded the luxury of exploring other interests. Witchery is not this way.

Geralt couldn’t speak for other schools, but from the moment a child is found and brought to Kaer Morhen’s gates, that child lives and breathes witchery. There is nothing else. If they showed interest in other hobbies, they’d be swiftly shaken out of it.

Distractions are _deadly—_ and why, Vesemir would say, should one waste time on paintings and scrawlings and games, when one could be practicing? Those extra hours of work put into sharpening skills could one day mean the difference between life and death.

In the early afternoon, Geralt hitched a ride with a caravan that was carrying lumber from the very woods he’d left. It was headed towards Gors Velen. The coach knew who he was, though they’d never met before, thanks to his looks and far-reaching reputation. He agreed to transport the witcher, so long as he promised to protect them for the rest of their journey.

Using a donated rope, Geralt gratefully tied the fiend’s head off the backside of the wagon he rested on, where it swung like a ghastly pendulum with every bump the wheels encountered. He himself perched precariously atop a mountain of wooden planks tied into bundles. It wasn't the least comfortable journey he's been on.

The trade route was busy, filled with other caravans, travelers on horseback and on foot, and constables keeping bandits at bay, but they made it to the seaside city without issue. Truth be told, Geralt's injuries from the fiend, although miraculously healed, still bothered him. Certain positions would send sharp pains through his body, and things in there felt a bit out of place. He hoped they’d settle eventually—it had only been a day, after all. In the meantime, he wasn’t in the mood for a scuffle.

Geralt jumps off the wagon while it’s stopped at the southwest gate to be checked in, unties the fiend head, and waves at the coach before heading off into the busy streets.

The crowds part for him, giving him and his grisly cargo a wide berth. He hears people talking among themselves in hushed voices, pointing and pulling their children away. Cats eye him from alleyways and hiss as he passes. A man pushing a wooden wheelbarrow full of squash helpfully "reminds” him that his kind “carries foreign disease” and that he should mind himself and keep his business here short. All perfectly typical.

The guards at the entrance to the mayor’s building uncross their halberds at once upon seeing him. “Sir Witcher,” one of them greets with a nod, but he’s eyeing the decapitated head and looks put-off by it.

Geralt begins to turn the beast’s head onto its side so he can fit the horns through the doorway, but is stopped by a man standing just inside. He wears a forest-green tunic and a matching beret with a pheasant feather in it. His dark brown goatee and moustache end in finely-manicured points. His leather boots are dull and cracked, clearly in need of oiling, and are covered in dried mud.

“I must ask you leave your trophy outside. Mayor Gervyck won’t take kindly to drippings on his floor,” the man says with a disgusted grimace. Geralt grumbles, but steps backwards and drops the head heavily on the street. It makes a wet squelching sound as it hits the cobblestone.

“Does this please you…?” Geralt says flatly, gesturing to the head. After spying the insignia on the man’s shoulder, he adds, “…sheriff?”

The sheriff waves curtly. “Yes, yes. That’s fine. Now wash your soiled hands in that bucket there and come inside. Your timing is fortunate.”

“How so?”

“We are in sore need of your…unique talents.” The sheriff turns away. He doesn’t elaborate. Geralt follows him inside, down a hall and up a flight of stairs into a large office.

Mayor Gervyck is sitting at a large mahogany desk, bent over a scroll and holding an eyeglass to his face, thoroughly scrutinizing every word written on it. “Gentlemen,” he mutters, gesturing for them to sit, but doesn’t look up for a long moment.

The sheriff sits immediately. Geralt only does after he is given an expectant glare—He wasn’t planning on staying long.

The mayor finally pushes the scroll away, folds his hands over the table and clears his throat. He looks Geralt up and down, and his eyes settle on the tear in the armor and the puckered scar. His eyebrows rise. “Don’t tell me the fiend gave you that?”

Geralt gives a little nod.

“And it’s healed? Completely?”

Geralt shifts in the chair, suddenly realizing how strange it must appear. “Witchers heal quickly,” he greatly exaggerates.

“Interesting. So, there’s truth to the seemingly far-fetched abilities you mutants have…I trust you’ve the gall to show your face in my city only because you’ve succeeded in slaying the beast?”

“The head is out front, if you require proof.”

Gervyck stands and peers out his office window. Geralt sees his nose wrinkle before he unlatches and opens the pane. “Berkeley!” he calls down. “Get rid of that unsightly thing at once.” Geralt hears a muffled response, and the mayor waves his hand dismissively. “Have it taken to the bladesmith. Perhaps he can craft something from the teeth or horns.” 

Geralt frowns—monster parts are usually _his_ to peddle. But he’s too tired and sore from yesterday’s fight to argue.

The mayor closes the window, taking care to latch it, and turns back to them. He calmly opens one of his desk drawers, pulls out a small drawstring bag, and tosses it to Geralt, who just barely reacts fast enough to catch it. He curiously pulls the bag open, finds a modest number of crowns, and looks up confusedly.

“I thought I wasn’t getting paid?”

“Please. That’s a pittance. Even though we’d made a deal, I can’t let honest work go entirely unrewarded. There’s more where that came from. _Much_ more, if you’re willing to assist me with further monster-related matters. Coin is what drives your kind, no?”

Geralt narrows his eyes and pulls the bag closed. He doesn’t reply. The mayor straightens, folds his hands behind his back and then barks at the sheriff. “Moore, your report?”

Sheriff Moore sits up in his seat and clears his throat. “Constable Emerad has continued his investigations surrounding the haunting of Geisburg. Laborers continue to report thick fog, ominous howling, and the constant presence of crows. Someone swore they’d spotted an unnaturally large black fox patrolling the mists. People are frightened that a devil is after their souls—There are no such thing as devils! It’s pure religious superstition. I’m telling you, it’s one of those _fae_ creatures everyone’s been talking about. Trouble-making sods!”

"I asked for a report, Moore. Not a sermon. Keep your opinions to yourself," says the mayor.

“Any small children in the town? Girls, specifically?” asks Geralt coolly, despite the sinking feeling in his chest.

“Yes. Why do you ask?” says the sheriff.

 _Damn it…_ Geralt stands. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. I’ll go check it out. But first we discuss payment. I require the funds for new chest armor, something _decent—_ upfront. And I’ll need to be loaned a horse, as the fiend chased mine off into the wilderness.”

Geralt slows his gray gelding into a walk as he comes upon the settlement of Geisburg. Twenty or so modest, thatch-roofed huts sit scattered around a lumbermill, which stands proudly at the head of acres and acres of cleared woodland. Carpenters chip away at logs, expertly shaping them into planks with their axes and handsaws, creating constant background noise. Teams of sweating draft horses pull fresh-cut trees down a wide, main dirt road, encouraged by men in wide-brimmed hats and short whips.

Geralt rides up to a man splitting logs by the front of the mill. “Greetings,” he says. The carpenter wipes his brow and looks up at him. When he sees Geralt’s face, he nearly drops his tool, and stares up with wide, fearful eyes.

“G-good day, sir. What can I do for you?”

Geralt dismounts. He shakes the laborer’s hand, his grip firm and confident. “Geralt of Rivia. Witcher. I’m here on the mayor’s orders. I was told there’s been a disturbance?”

“A witcher? Oh, Emerad has come through for us after all!” The man visibly relaxes. “There’s indeed a disturbance, witcher, sir! A _devil_ stalks our village at night. Come dusk, we drop our axes and hurry to our homes, ‘fore a dense fog rolls through the place. Makes it so you can barely see two paces in front of you. There’s angry-soundin’ barkin’ and yippin’, ominous echoin’ howls, and then _she_ appears—a demon vixen! Big as a wolf, I tell you, and it has glowin’ white eyes and fur dark as pitch.” The carpenter folds his hands. “What shall we do? What is she? What does she want from us?”

“That’s what I’m here to find out. For now, keep your young girls inside. Don’t let them out—not even to work.”

“What are you sayin’?”

“If this creature is what I think it is, then it’s looking to steal a little girl to make its own.” He pauses, thinking. “Although something still doesn’t add up. Do any elves work here?”

“Nay, sir. Only humans.”

Geralt rubs his chin. “That’s what I thought…curious…”

“What kind of creature do you think it is? A demon, surely?”

The witcher lowers his voice. “An aguara, if you really must know. They’re typically reclusive and nonviolent, so long as you don’t get between them and the children they claim. There’s no cause for alarm, so long as you do as I ask.”

“Right.” The man nods vigorously. “I’ll tell the mill’s owner at once. We’ll round up the girls. Keep 'em safe in their homes.”

“Good.”

“And what will you do?”

“I’m going to stay outside and wait for the creature at dusk.” Geralt looks up at the sky, squinting, and takes note of the position of the sun. “Which will be…in less than two hours.”

“We are grateful for your help, Geralt, sir. My name is Ander. If you’re in need of food or lodging, my door is open to you.”


	30. Chapter 30

Upon returning home, Jaskier is surprised to find Asper in the throne room. The king of sprites almost never visited their gloomy castle at the top of the mountain. It must be an important conversation, for him to have come here. So, rather than interrupting, Jaskier hides behind the wall and peeks around the door frame. The raven, perched heavily on his antlers, leans forward to watch as well.

Asper is standing at the foot of Vescailla’s dais. The queen sits on her gnarled throne, leaning back against it. She's got one hand on the armrest, her fingers rhythmically tapping the bark, and the other hand rubbing her temple tiredly. Her eyes are closed and the corners of her mouth tug downwards, as the king continues to speak and gesture enthusiastically at her. Asper’s entire right arm is bandaged. Jaskier only notices after the king lifts the limb upwards in another excited gesture and the loose sleeves of his red, white and gold robe slide down to his elbows.

Vescailla huffs and cuts him off with a sharp wave of her hand. “Enough. I already gave you my advice, and my advice is to _let her go_.”

“And I told you, I know how risky this is, but I believe it’s worth it. Come on, Ves. We got this far. Are you not willing to try?”

Vescailla’s eyes open into a glare. She leans forward in her seat. “Have you learned _nothing_ from those dusty old tomes you’ve had your snout buried in? I’ve dealt with them before. Allow me to enlighten you, young one. Despite living mostly solitary lives, they have tightknit family units and are _highly_ protective of one another. Who’s to say she doesn’t have a mate? One who might one day notice her absence and come looking for her?”

Asper, who Jaskier still has trouble wrapping his mind around being considered “young,” when he in-fact looked like a forty-year-old Oxenfurt scholar, says, in his weighty voice, “We have her hidden in an underground cave—just until she yields to us. I doubt her mate, if she even has one, would hear her crooning way down there.”

Vescailla thumps a fist against the throne’s armrest. “She’s not a horse, damn it! You can’t expect to _break_ a dragon.” 

Asper moves to cross his arms, then winces as if in pain and opts to open them wide instead. “But how do you _know?_ We’re entering uncharted territory. If we succeed, it could change everything.”

The queen falls back against her throne with a drawn-out sigh. Her next words are slow and stern. “I can handle a forktail or wyvern with ease, but I am too old to fight an adult dragon.”

“It’s that or nothing! The fire of other draconids doesn’t work. We’ve tried already. I’ve lost good men to that knowledge. You know that!”

Vescailla closes her eyes again and returns to rubbing her temple. “That’s not my _point_. My reflexes aren’t what they used to be. My vision is beginning to cloud. I can’t store as much of Gaia’s energy in my body as I used to…”

“Those are some shockingly _humble_ words, coming from you.”

The queen opens her eyes again, and then rolls them dramatically. “Asper, what if things go awry? Ah? You _can’t_ count on me to be your failsafe. This is what you’re not understanding.”

The king clenches his jaw. He doesn’t respond.

Vescailla’s eyes move to settle on the door. She clears her throat. The skrull prince stiffens and leans away from the wooden frame, praying she didn’t actually see him.

“Jaskier.” It’s a tired drone.

 _Pox on it..._ Jaskier edges inside, putting on a guiltily smile, saying, “Sorry…I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Rather than face his mother, he approaches the king, hoping to take the conversation topic off of himself. “Is it true? You’ve actually found—and _captured_ —a dragon?”

Asper nods. Jaskier steps closer, intrigued. “What’s she look like? What’s her name?”

“Red in color, and she refuses to speak to us.”

Jaskier isn't surprised. “And your arm?”

The king’s gaze wanders. He pulls his sleeve further down his wrist. “It's nothing.”

“Uh huh. How’d you manage to capture her?”

Asper looks back up at him and stares briefly, his eyebrows pushing together. He looks burdened, like he'd been asked to admit something he’d rather keep to himself. Nevertheless, he speaks.

“We found her sleeping in a cave, in the low mountains that separate the great forest from Verden. We got lucky; The cave was spacious. Our soft-feathered, owl-like wings enable us deathly-quiet flight, so we were able to drape chainlink nets—enchanted against melting—across her, binding her wings and limbs. When she woke, she put up quite the fight, roaring and thrashing—We managed to sedate her by injecting a refined herbal concoction into the muscles of her neck and tied her jaws shut.

“Then, we loaded her onto a wooden sled and dragged it down the mountain with a team of horses. It took two days to get her back here. We didn’t have to worry about feeding her, as the overgrown lizards don’t need to eat more than a couple times a month.

“Water is another story, however. Therein lies the problem that brought me to the gates of your... _lovely_ castle. See, we stopped by a river and loosened the ropes on her snout to try to get her to drink, but she refused.” Asper pauses, and his frown deepens. “She _still_ hasn’t had anything to drink.”

Jaskier heart sinks. He knows the human threat they faced could be great. Asper’s idea is promising, but the poet can’t help but feel grimy about what it entails. Enslaving a dragon? Is the relationship between them truly so strained that there's no hope of convincing the dragons to assist on their own?

“Maybe I can try talking to her?” Jaskier says, with some hesitance. He doesn’t have a plan, but perhaps an audience with the dragon would provide the spark of inspiration he needs to come up with a solution that would leave both parties satisfied.

“At this point, I’m willing to try anything,” Asper says gruffly, and clutches his injured arm against his chest. “She’ll die if this continues. And what an enormous waste of time and energy it would’ve been.”

“ _Excuse_ me,” Vescailla interjects. Jaskier looks to her, startled by the sharp tone. Her wing feathers are ruffled and she has a finger pointed at his face. “ _Where_ have you been the last two days? And what in Gaia’s good name makes you think you can just _run off_ like that? Just because you’re a prince doesn’t mean you get to drop your responsibilities whenever you feel like it! I’ve had to shuffle leshens and lower guards around to ensure _your_ extensive orchard route was covered. You didn’t even consider that, did you? Jaskier shrugs into himself. Vescailla adds, poisonously, “You’re lucky I’m finished sporing for the season. I have half a mind to clip your wings and _ground_ you until your next molt.”

Jaskier raises his hands. “I’m sorry. I-It was the middle of the night and I had to leave _right away,_ otherwise I would've told you ahead of time.” One of the queen’s eyebrows arches in a clear look of skepticism. Jaskier speaks quickly. “It was an _emergency_. Remember how I decided to cut the heartstring between Geralt and I? Remember how you warned me that I didn’t know what original fate I’d pulled him from? Well, it turns out—”

“ _Enough,_ ” Vescailla says, and Jaskier snaps his jaw shut. The queen leans forward and examines him for a moment. She slowly brings herself to a stand and crosses her arms, looking down at him. “I hope you’ve _learned_ from this experience. Oh, stop looking so guilty. It’s pathetic. I said it in the beginning: this was never about rightness or wrongness, rather, a lesson in physics, of actions and consequences, and of the deep entanglement of all things.”

Jaskier still doesn’t quite get it. He nods fervently anyway.

Vescailla’s eyes narrow. She shifts her weight and hums thoughtfully. Then, keeping her gaze set on Jaskier, she asks, “Is this dragon well-secured?” Asper affirms. Vescailla lifts her chin. “Then you may escort the prince to her. But if anything happens to him, it’s _your_ neck on the line, little brother. Is that understood?”

Asper grumbles and looks to Jaskier. He nods his head towards the door, indicating for the poet to follow.

Jaskier starts walking, but then stops. “Hold on. Vescailla, I came here because I need to _warn_ you. Geralt told me the humans in the seaside city of Gors Velen are talking about us. It’s because of what happened with the, um...ruined village.”

”What?”

He hunches into himself. "I-I think someone... _maybe_...made it out of that village? Someone who, _technically_ , saw my true form, and...um...” His words fade into petrified silence when he sees Vescailla’s mouth warp into a snarl. He takes a step back. _Oh, gods. This is it. This is how I die!_

“ _Fool_ ,” the queen growls. Her irises begin to flicker with purple light. Jaskier cowers as the queen's energy swarms around him, pressing into him from all sides and making his hair stand on end. “Where’s the amulet?”

“Geralt should have—”

“Get it from him. I want that thing cast into flames.”

Jaskier nods quickly. Then, after a moment, he asks, "What if we're attacked? Vescailla?"

"Shut up. I'm thinking." Vescailla's eyes rise to the leshen mural on the ceiling. She taps her foot and strokes her chin pensively, leaving a tense silence suspended over the room to mingle with the static of her magic. Eventually, she looks back down at Jaskier. He’s surprised to find her eyes have lost their angry glow. She says, “So long as that amulet is destroyed, we'll be fine."

”But—”

“ _We'll be fine_ ," she snaps. Jaskier is taken aback by her sudden defensiveness. Vescailla adds, sharply, "It's been _months_ since you destroyed that town, and the humans have yet to retaliate. Their kind are notoriously quick to anger. One would think, if they _were_ planning an attack, that they would've done so by now. Tensions must have simmered down. Monsters attack homesteads all the time, after all. We just have to be careful not to aggravate them any further." She pauses, turns on her heel, and swiftly stalks across the room, adding, "That said, I'll leave nothing to chance. I won’t have the humans sneaking up on us...”

Vescailla walks into the hallway. Asper and Jaskier glance at each other, and then follow. As the queen passes guards stationed by balconies and entryways, she calls out to them and they spring into action. “I want the number of patrols around the nurseries _doubled_ and immediate reports of any suspicious sightings. Pull non-essential workers for guard duty first. Any leshen-level guardians that aren't already patrolling should be summoned.” 

The bard can feel Vescailla’s energy begin to surge again. But it feels less like buzzing now and more like lightning: purposeful and direct. Moments later, he hears the distant howling of wolves. Her ravens can be heard croaking from the rooftops. The sounds send a shiver up Jaskier's spine. 

“Asper,” the queen glances back at him. “I recommend sending more of your scouts to the forest’s edge. Talk to your new commander. Since she’s so eager to prove herself to you, give her this assignment.” She returns her attention to the front as she rounds a corner. “Ren is a tough act to follow, after all. It was a big deal in the sprite circle, to have taken down a witcher.”

“Ren did _what?_ ” Jaskier barks. He speeds up, trying to make sure he’d heard her correctly. Vescailla stops short; He almost runs into her wings and quickly side-steps, swinging around to her front. The queen looks at him, eyebrows raised, and there’s a new glint in her eyes, as if she’s _reveling_ in being the one to deliver the news.

“Oh yes,” she says. “Ren got _quite_ cozy with my last heir, Cassia. When that witcher took Cassia out, Ren was _furious_ and hunted the fae-slayer down...I’ll admit, she was a master with that bow of her’s. Deadly, _near-flawless_ aim. She earned the respect of many skrulls for such a swift, tidy act of revenge.”

Jaskier’s brow furrows as he searches the queen’s eyes for a lie. He finds none and swallows dryly. “Why didn’t she tell me?” He intends for the question to remain inside his head, but the raven says it softly anyway.

“Regret, I’m sure,” says the queen, shrugging lazily. “She changed her tune—dropped her weapon and took up the staff and, with Asper’s blessing, enforced a new rule that the other sprites do the same.” She steps around Jaskier and continues walking. He follows. “As a result, human death counts dropped dramatically. But the humans became emboldened and started hunting, trapping and logging at an unsustainable pace. More and more of them wandered uncomfortably close to the nurseries. _I_ responded by ordering my subordinates to become less forgiving: spend less time scaring and more time _killing_. The humans had to be sent a clear message.”

Vescailla goes on, “Ren became disgusted with me. She constantly barged into my castle with some complaint or another about my methods, calling them unnecessarily cruel. Saying things needed to change. But she was a _hypocrite_ , having killed many humans in her career. I’d constantly ask her how filling a man’s ribs with obsidian-tipped arrows—sharper than any metal blade—differed in ‘mercy’ to hanging him on a wooden pike. Our arguments were circular. I would’ve fed her to my wolves for her brashness, if Asper hadn’t been so fond of her.”

“That’s _enough_ , Ves,” Asper says from behind. “Do not speak ill of the dead when they cannot be here to defend themselves.”

The queen ignores him and adds, “Actually, Jaskier, _you_ showing up turned out to be quite a relief. Ren was distracted by you, and by extension left me in peace. Seems to me she had a _type_.”

“ _Vescailla_ ,” Asper’s voice deepens.

Jaskier pivots and storms back up the halls, making a beeline for the nearest balcony. He's done listening to Vescailla tell stories. She could say whatever she wanted. Little does she know he intends to ask the ghost herself about it— _if_ Ren lets him back into her liminal dreamworld, that is.

Balcony. Cool air. Open sky. He needs time to think.

“And _where_ do you think _you’re_ going?” Vescailla calls after him.

Jaskier swings open a balcony door. “Going for a fly.”

“What about the dragon?” Asper adds.

That makes him stop. _Pox_ _…If she isn’t drinking, then it really can’t wait.._.

He clenches his jaw and, with a sigh, he steps back inside and closes the door. “Right. Lead the way, Your Majesty.”


	31. Chapter 31

The fog is exactly as the carpenter described; rolling in, quite suddenly, like a wave of thick, milky smoke. Even with his advanced eyesight, Geralt can barely see a damn thing. He sits against the side of the carpenter’s house, looking out into the clearing in the center of the village.

He sharpens his hearing and listens to the snorts and stamps of the workhorses in their stables, and the chittering of a pair of rats in the same building. He can hear the gentle clucking of hens holed up in their coop, as well as the muffled voices of the villagers in their homes.

Then, a new sound catches his attention: footsteps, coming from the woods. Definitely not human. The gait is one of something on four legs, trotting. Geralt doesn’t move, wishing to remain hidden, so he can watch the creature work.

His eyes catch movement from the left. Through the mist, he can make out a dark, faint shape, about two feet off the ground. Its steps are so light and quick; it practically glides across the town square, headed towards the mill. With distance, it quickly fades back in the fog.

Geralt stands and moves silently after it. The house behind him is swallowed by the white smoke and, for a moment, he can’t make out any other landmarks with which to orient himself. He keeps moving forward, following the muted sound of the creature’s steps.

When he spots it again, it’s up on the cobblestone platform of the mill. Undeniably a fox. Despite what he’d been told, everything about this one seemed ordinary. It’s the right size, and while it appears dark-furred—nearly black—from a distance, the closer Geralt creeps, the more its fur takes on the typical reddish shade.

The only truly odd thing are its eyes, which he notices when he mistakenly steps on a twig and the creature turns its head towards him: They are wide and glow white; The illumination cuts through the fog like a lighthouse. The fox stares, ears perked, for a moment, as still as a statue. But it doesn’t seem able to make out the witcher through the mist, its eyesight apparently not as refined as his own.

Geralt’s tilts his head a little. _This is no aguara._

The creature returns to its business. It sniffs around, and then starts to gnaw at ropes, topple over buckets of water and knock tools from their tables. It takes the tool handles into its mouth, drags them, one at a time, into the woods and caches them all over the place, burying them under piles of leaves and beneath bushes.

Then, it makes its way towards the stables. Geralt follows, light on his feet. The fox looks up at the horses, which have their heads poking out over the stall doors. They watch the fox almost expectantly, with their ears straight up and facing forward, unafraid. Some of them turn impatiently in a circle within their confines.

The fox stands up on its hind legs, bracing itself against the wood, and unlatches the first gate with its mouth. Then, one by one, it does the same to them all. The horses nudge the gates open with their snouts and trot outside, spreading themselves around the village to explore and to browse the greenery.

 _Troublemaker_.

The animal passes by the chickens, wholly disinterested—very unfox-like, he notes—and heads for the houses instead. It growls and barks menacingly outside the doors, and scratches at the wood, but it makes no attempt to turn the knobs, spending only a minute or two at each house before moving to the next. Its route is somewhat mechanical, as if it’s following a schedule it needs to keep pace with.

Geralt hides around the corner of the next house in line. Then, right as the fox alights upon the doorstep, he throws out a Yrden trap beneath its paws. If his suspicions are correct, and this was in-fact a specter of some sort, the trap would render it physical and keep it within the circle’s confines. Geralt leaps out of the bushes and pounces on it, pinning it to the ground—The trap works.

The fox yelps and writhes, struggling beneath his muscular grip. It claws at the witcher’s face and bites his forearm—hard. Geralt winces, but doesn’t let go. He grabs the fox by the scruff of its neck and carries it into the woods, to somewhere private, taking his magical circle along with him. The animal struggles madly in his grip the entire time. 

When he feels he is a suitable distance away from civilization, he sets the fox down and steps quickly outside of the barrier. As soon as the fox’s toes touch the ground, it spins and snaps its jaws at Geralt’s throat, but rather than its teeth digging into his skin, its snout is smushed comically against the spell’s invisible wall.

The witcher stands with his arms crossed, looking smugly down at the creature. The fox growls up at him with its ears pressed flat against its skull and its bushy tail lashing. Geralt waits patiently, curious to see what the creature would do next.

The fox trots in a wide circle, skirting the edges of the barrier, sniffing, as if searching for an opening. It seems to give up after a while and sits in the center, tail curled around its legs, glaring at him. 

“Why are you sabotaging the lumber mill?” Geralt asks.

The fox does not answer—and he doesn’t expect it to. It's an animal, after all. But it seems intelligent enough that he suspects it might at least understand him. But if it can, it does nothing to indicate as much.

He waits some more. They stare at one another. Eventually, the witcher sits. The fox lays down. An indeterminate amount of time passes. Geralt is patient. He has nowhere to be.

Suddenly, the creature stands and arches its back. It bares its teeth in what Geralt can only interpret as a pained grimace. Its form begins to waiver. Geralt stands, somewhat startled, when the fox’s form grows tall and, oddly enough, humanoid. What—more specifically, _who_ —he finds looking back at him takes him by surprise.

“ _Ren?_ ”

The faery’s eyes, still ghostly, with washed-out-looking pupils, are no longer glowing. She’s giving him an equally astonished stare. “Geralt?” She takes a hesitant step toward him. “You’re... _alive_. You made it out of the crypt.” She tips her head back in a sigh of relief. “ _Oh_ , that’s good. I’m glad...Jas would’ve been _devastated._ ”

Geralt notes that she’s reacting as if having only _just_ recognized him. She's either pretending to be surprised, or the fox is, somehow, an entirely separate consciousness.

“He _was_ devastated,” he answers coolly, “Over you.” Despite his better judgement, Geralt steps inside the barrier. “What are you doing here?”

The ghost looks down and screws up her face a little, thinking. After a moment, she drops to sit on the ground and stares down at her hands like she wonders if they belong to her.

Geralt sits as well. He waits patiently for her to collect her thoughts.

“What _am_ I doing here?” Ren finally mumbles. Her ragged wings shuffle a little. Then, her hands lift to her face, briefly covering her eyes. She groans, and says, “That’s right...Jaskier was so upset when he found us. What a _mess_.” Her hands drop limply into her lap, revealing a disconcerted face.

“ _Upset_ is an understatement,” Geralt says dryly, then sits straighter as her words sink in. "Hang on...you _saw_ all of that?”

She doesn’t answer right away, taking a moment to continue staring at the ground, chewing on her lip. When she does speak, her voice is distant. “I was hovering in that room those first few hours, yes...Seems my soul needed time to untether itself. I saw Jaskier kill that wizard; watched him cry over me, and then...take his anger out on that little town.” She pauses, her face warping into something perturbed—but over the villagers, or over Jaskier? Geralt wonders. Ren looks up at him and adds, “You tried to stop him, but...he wouldn't listen."

 _If she witnessed what happened in the crypt with Jaskier, then why is she surprised to see me alive now? Is she just_ now _remembering? Did...did she truly forget all of that?_

“You tried to protect me." Ren's voice pulls him from his head. “You’re a witcher, but you put yourself between me and them.” She looks as confused as he feels. He simply nods. She twists her lips thoughtfully, as if having needed the confirmation, but then seems to soften. “Thank you.”

“Why are you thanking me?” Geralt says, sitting back and shaking his head. “I failed… _everything_ , that day. Everything that could have gone wrong, had. I knew better. I should’ve considered the possibility that Stregobor was intentionally _distracting_ me—should’ve paid attention to what was going on all around me—then I might have been able to take them down right there. I wouldn’t have been paralyzed, and—and _you_ wouldn’t have…”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Ren says. He blinks, taken aback by the gentle tone. “You tried. Your intent was clear. That’s what I’m thanking you for.”

She leans forward and braces a hand on his shoulder, and he tenses. He’s still unsure of how Ren feels about him; whether she considers them allies, or enemies, or something in-between. He reasons it’s most likely the latter; that they’re nothing more than reluctant partners brought together with a common cause: mutual concern over a foolish bard.

But then the faery says, tilting her head at him in a thoughtful way, “You know _..._ I wish we’d been given more time to get to know each other. I think we would’ve become good friends.” She pushes off of him, using the momentum to lean back on her hands.

He hums skeptically. People didn’t typically _volunteer_ their friendship to him, let alone people who, at one point not too long ago, would’ve greatly preferred him dead.

Ren’s eyes are narrowed; knowing. “I keep expecting you to act one way, and you always do something else. Something that is, in my experience, very un-witcher-like. You’re helping monsters.” A pause. She takes a moment to search his face, and then her smile widens into something wry, adding, “I find you fascinating, Geralt. I like you. Plus, I’m grateful. You helped teach me something.”

“What’s that?”

“The degree to which people can change over time,” she says. His expression must’ve begged for elaboration, because she adds, “If we crossed paths less than a decade ago, I wouldn’t have given you a chance. I would’ve shot you dead before you set foot on one of our nurseries. You, a clueless mouse, and I, an owl with obsidian talons. You wouldn't have known what hit you.”

Geralt braces his hands on his knees and leans forward a little, finding her comment amusing. “Think so? You should know I pride myself on being _damned hard_ to take down." He's reminded of his childhood, when he and his wolf brothers would turn everything into a competition. Even the most insignificant events, like meals or baths, would be tinted with an air of playful rivalry.

But Ren, he quickly realizes, is not playing.

“I know so.” Her tone is grave, and the look she gives him is so firm, so certain and so unexpected, the witcher sits back and swallows dryly. He doesn’t doubt for a second that she’s killed his kind before.

Ren says, “Jaskier idiotically dragging you to a nursery turned out to be a crucial moment for me. I proved to myself, once and for all, that I’m not the same as I was.”

Geralt doesn’t answer—isn’t sure how to—busy grappling with how differently that first interaction could’ve gone. Strangest of all, he finds himself feeling a bit _flustered_ by it—by _her_. 

The sprite asks, coolly, “How _is_ the poet?”

“He’s...” Geralt pauses to swallow. “Uhm...he’s pretty worried about you.”

“Me?”

He nods, his confusion returning. “You just spoke with him the other night, didn't you? Told him you didn’t want to burden him? Shut him out of your liminal hiding place?”

“I did?” Ren looks down, eyebrows knitting together. Then, she sits straight and slaps a palm to her forehead. “I _did._ ” It’s followed by a soft curse.

Silence falls over them again. Geralt patiently gives her the chance to cobble her memories back together. But, the longer Ren thinks, the more her face seems to wrinkle with worry. He thinks he knows why, and tries circling back to his original question: “So, what are you doing here?”

“I...don’t know.” She looks around, then up at the sky, across the trees, and finally down at the ring of glowing purple symbols that make up the magical trap. “ _Where_ is here?”

“Geisburg…Well, the outskirts of it. Didn’t wanna do this in the middle of town.” Ren only blinks, the name apparently meaning nothing to her. He adds, “It’s a logging settlement on the northern edge of the great forest…You really don’t remember, huh.”

“Um, what am I supposed to be remembering, exactly?”

Geralt rests his elbows on his knees and laces his fingers together. He stares pensively, struggling to interpret the look in her eyes. “The fox?” he tries. When that doesn’t seem to jog her memory, he clarifies. “You were a fox, just a few minutes ago.”

Ren snorts, amused. “What? Are you messing with me?” Geralt shakes his head slowly, and she gives a nervous little laugh. “You feeling alright, witcher? Did that wizard knock you over the head with his staff or something?”

Geralt frowns _. Seems her perception of time is distorted as well._ He says, gently, “Even if he had, I would’ve had plenty of time to recover...That incident happened _over_ half a year ago.”

”Huh?”

”Have you noticed there are leaves on the trees now?”

Ren sits up and looks around again. A small curse escapes her mouth. Then another, harsher one, as her shoulders hike up and she winces. Her hand lifts to cradle the side of her head. Geralt watches with growing concern as her form begins to take on a more transparent appearance. Then, it doubles, flickering like a candle.

 _It’s just like Jaskier said. She’s literally coming apart—_ He stiffens when she takes hold of his arm, her grip trembling. Her head is bowed low. She grimaces, eyes shut tight, clearly in some sort of pain. Although, lacking a true body, Geralt guesses it must be a kind of mental anguish.

In a move that’s almost instinctive, he puts his hand over hers and grips it firmly. Her form snaps back into place.

Ren lets him go. “Sorry,” she mumbles. “I’ve been having trouble keeping things straight…everything’s getting jumbled together…the river’s been calling me, but there’s something I feel like I still need to do—I just—I don’t want to go yet…I have to…” her disjointed sentence is capped by another soft swear.

She curls into herself, drawing in her knees and burying her face in her arms. Her owl wings curl around her front.

Geralt’s chest aches; It’s a painfully familiar sight. He raises his arm with the intent to pry open a wing and talk to her, but ends up stopping himself. This isn’t Jaskier.

“I’m going mad,” he hears her muffled, defeated voice. “It feels like my head’s filled with memories that aren’t mine. Now you’re telling me I’m doing things I don’t remember doing? I mean, a fox? I don’t understand…”

 _Memories that aren’t yours…_ Geralt rubs his chin. He vaguely recalls reading about something similar in one of Vesemir’s boring old tomes; an assemblage of witchers’ collective knowledge, called _Wraiths, Ghosts and Other Spirits._ It was a while ago—something he’d nonchalantly read during one of the many winters he’d spent holed up there. He wishes he’d payed closer attention to the chapter.

“I think I know what’s happening to you,” he offers, hesitantly.

“What?” The word is small. Her wings unfold a little.

Geralt speaks carefully, wanting to make sure he gives himself the time to remember the information correctly, “An individual soul has many lifetimes, sometimes called ‘expressions.’ Are you familiar with the concept?”

She nods.

He goes on, a little more confidently, “I think your current identity, the one you had in this life, is slowly dissolving into the...conglomerate that is all your previous lifetimes. They linger, energetically. It’s like…ah, gods, how do I even describe this…if you imagine your soul as a soup, then your past lives are what make up the ingredients that go in it. The resulting dish, when presented as a whole, is your truest—‘highest’—self. But the recipe, for a majority of us, is still being cooked. More ingredients are needed.”

“Typically,” he continues, “the soul of the recently deceased will enter the celestial river instinctively, and will be swept by the current into another physical expression. But _you_ seem to be going against your instincts, and are refusing to move on. That’s not supposed to happen, so, naturally, you’re experiencing the adverse effects. Make sense?”

Ren’s wings fall away, but she keeps her chin planted on her arms. “I suppose.” She sticks her lower lip out in a little pout. “I _know_ this is wrong. I can feel it in every particle of myself. But…”

“But something feels unresolved.”

She nods. “And I’m still not sure how a fox has anything to do with this.”

“Easy. It must be a past life—likely your most recent one. If I remember correctly, the longer you put-off jumping into that river, the stronger the echoes from your other lives will become. In other words, the longer you swim in the ‘soup,’ the more likely you are to run up against the other ingredients—And they _all_ have unfinished business they want to resolve. They’ll continue to vie for control over your current consciousness, because a ghost, lingering in the in-between and still able to interact with the material world, albeit in a limited way, is the closest thing they have to a body.”

Geralt pauses to make sure he still has her full attention, and then says, “The fox clearly has issue with humans—specifically those who make their livelihoods off the resources of the forest. You said you were experiencing memories that you know aren’t yours—weren’t from your life as a faery. Do any of those seem like they’d be from the perspective of a fox?”

Ren thinks. Her lead lifts. “Actually...I _do_ remember something, but it feels so distant...like it had been a dream. It... _her_ leg got caught in a hunter’s trap. The hunter returned two agonizing days later, and the fox was killed and skinned for her fur, and…” She pauses, shivers, and hikes her shoulders up.

“Yes?”

“Hold on, I’m…” She makes a pained, breathy sound. Her eyes flash with light. She blinks it away and winces. “I’m getting more visions...? I think the fox is trying to _communicate_ with—oh, Geralt, she had _pups_ back in the den…” Another pause. She stares at the ground, grimacing and pressing a hand flat against her chest. “I... _remember_ that fear and helplessness. There’s a deep regret that still lingers; this heavy _guilt_ from abandoning them...”

Her form starts to shiver, fade and split once more. Geralt gently grasps her shoulder, re-grounding her. She huffs and runs her hands over her face.

He asks, “You okay?”

She shakes her head. Her eyes flicker like lightning, and she shuts them tightly, every flash looking like it caused her pain. Tears start spilling from her eyes. Geralt watches, tense and unsure of what to do. Moments later, apparently having had _quite enough_ of this, the faery falls to the side, leaning heavily against the witcher’s shoulder and burying her face in his sleeve.

“Ren?”

She lets out a small, frustrated moan, and grips his arm tightly. “There are so many emotions...it fucking _hurts_ ,” she says through her teeth, clutching at her chest with her other hand. “Gods...If I had a heart, I’m sure it would’ve _burst_ by now.”

Geralt sighs out his nose. Multiple lives must be thrusting their woes onto her at the same time. He can’t imagine how disorienting and overwhelming it must be.  
  
“Just hang on...” he says calmly, trying to be soothing. But in truth, he feels helpless.

Ren gradually relaxes into him, the emotional echoes slowly leaving her. Geralt can hear the relief in the sigh that escapes her.

”You alright?” he asks. She gives a small nod, and they sit, appreciating the stillness of the moment.

“You know,” Geralt eventually says, “it makes sense why the fox was intent on making the loggers’ lives difficult, based on its story. It also explains your current life.”

Ren sits up slowly and looks at him worriedly, the corners of her eyes still shining with tears. “How?”

“From what I’ve read, the body you end up in often reflects how you’ve changed and grown in the previous life. After the fox, you became a member of the fae: a protector of the forest and its inhabitants—and a killer.” He glances at her knowingly.

Ren twists her lips unhappily and pushes off of him, saying, “Don’t judge me for protecting my home.”

”I’m not...I can’t.”

They're silent. With a little grumble, Ren sweeps her loose, fox-red hair behind her ears. She then stares off into the woods, mulling in her thoughts.

Geralt remembers something. He thinks carefully about his next words, and whether or not he should even say them. The topic is something he’d picked up on months ago—he could smell it, to be specific—and he suspects it might have something to do with why Ren is so hesitant to move on to her next incarnation.

“So,” he decides to take a chance. “You ready to talk to Jas yet?”

She looks at him, brow furrowing. “About?”

He simply gives her a knowing look, and watches the realization slowly dawn on her face.

“Wait, seriously?” she barks. “ _Damn it!”_ She sits straight and punches his arm. “I’m adding your infuriating perceptiveness to my list of reasons why I _detest_ witchers.”

He chuckles and leans away, rubbing the spot. “ _All_ witchers? Or just me, specifically?”

Ren’s eyes narrow. He sees a fang poke out from between bluish lips in a half-hearted sneer. “I have multiple lists.”

He hums in acknowledgement.

“I can’t help the way I feel," she says. "I’m sorry. But I never intended to come in between—”

”I know.”

"Is it that obvious?"

“No. Not to Jas, at least. For someone who claims to be observant, he can be painfully oblivious.”

Ren rubs her face tiredly. She doesn’t respond. 

Geralt, knowing this might be the key to solving her problem, adds, sincerely, “I want you to know, I'm fine with it. Believe me, I understand. He’s...well, _Jaskier—_ charming little shit...And I know you two have a few years on me. So. Talk to him. Do what you need to do. I won’t get mad, I promise.”

"You..." Her eyes go wider. Then, she turns her head away and rubs one of her horns guiltily. “Alright.”

Another silence. Geralt is comfortable in it. Ren squirms and sighs again.

The witcher says, gently, ”It’s true, we didn’t get a lot of time to get to know each other, but we can still be friends—we’re friends, Ren.”

She looks at him, mouth opening slightly, like she were on the edge of saying something. She just looks back at the ground.

"Fuck that wizard," Geralt mutters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Nowhere Now](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f6jA-l0Vj8A) by [Matthew and the Atlas](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCTeLXZEI9hs7VXTD8Typnww)


	32. Chapter 32

The system of caves deep below Asper’s kingdom is hot and suffocatingly humid. The heat grows more intense the deeper they go. Jaskier can tell they’re getting close once the smell of smoke and a hint of sulfur join the uncomfortable mix. The raven on his shoulder has its feathers smoothed flat and its beak held open in a pant.

When Asper finally stops and peeks around a stony outcrop, Jaskier does the same, leaning a bit further so he can see around the king’s wings.

The dragon is curled up on the floor and appears to be asleep. She’s larger than Jaskier anticipated; all rough-scaled and covered in little ridges and horns, making her look more earthen than animal—like a cave turned inside-out. Chains bind her limbs and wings, glowing faintly with what Asper had described as an anti-melting spell.

Several water-filled barrels on wheeled wooden platforms stand against the wall—remnants of the failed attempts at getting the dragon to drink and, he's certain, the source of the thickness of the air as it evaporates. The half-dozen guards stationed in the cave tug casually at the collars of their uniforms. They’re visibly sweating, likely not only from the heat, but also from their proximity to the dangerous beast. 

“What now?” Asper whispers.

Jaskier’s mind begins to race. He still doesn’t have a plan, but there’s one thing he’s certain of. “It’s best I go in alone. The dragon doesn’t like you, and I don’t want to give her the wrong impression of me. I’d like you to pull your guards out as well.”

“But, you heard Ves. If anything happens to you—”

Jaskier looks up at him, trying his best to appear self-assured. “You’re just gonna have to trust me.”

Asper sets his jaw and frowns. But then he sighs and signals for the guards to exit. The sprites look relieved and eagerly retreat to the relative coolness of the passageway.

“We’ll be right around the corner, if need be,” the king says. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Jaskier enters the cavern slowly while his mind works to figure out the best way to go about this. Being a “good” person, it seemed, wouldn’t save him from being made a meal of. It was a dragon who ate the prophet Lebioda, after all.

Jaskier grew up listening to human’s tales of dragons. This, consequently, was his first impression of the creatures. The stories usually featured valiant knights on a quest to vanquish what’s essentially a caricature: this gigantic, stupid, malevolent natural disaster with wings.

With age, he's come to realize mankind can make for an unreliable narrator, and that their tales tend to be saturated with bias and exaggeration. Although, he must admit, they were often also beautiful recounts of love, adventure, danger and sacrifice. The _ripest_ ingredients for splendid, timeless poetry and song, all borne of encounters with dragons.

These living mountains still occupy a seat among mankind’s greatest and oldest enemies. Like the skrull monarchs, they are able to tap into the surrounding environmental magic, passively drawing its energy up through the soles of the feet. From there, at least in fae, it spreads throughout the body thanks to entropy.

In dragons, however, this power is not evenly spread, rather actively concentrated around the chest: the source of their notorious and deadly elemental breath attacks. This centralization creates a swollen, pressurized area, where the skin beneath the scales is pulled taught, becoming thinner, and is therefore more easily pierced than the rest of the body. This is the weak spot most knights aim for when preying upon a dragon.

The few humans who survive these encounters bring home tales of great struggle, of harrowing battles and of narrow escapes. In the face of great adversity, the knight somehow prevails and returns with packs stuffed full of teeth, scales, bottled tears and blood, as well as a cut of the monster’s treasure horde. Said knight is lifted into legend and finds themselves on the receiving end of statues, paintings and ballads. This is because to slay a dragon is to defeat Death incarnate.

Death, it is said by many, follows Geralt wherever he roams, and is always just a few steps behind. It’s true, the witcher brought many a man and beast to their demise. Yet Geralt swore off killing dragons long ago. This, despite being offered many well-paying contracts for their heads. Through him, Jaskier was able to form a more accurate picture of the creatures in his mind.

Geralt insists that a majority of dragon encounters— _true_ dragons, not their close relatives, the forktails and wyverns, which common folk frequently mix them up with—take place within the dragon’s own caves; where they are taken advantage of while guarding an egg or sleeping off a meal.

Dragons are, in truth, incredibly intelligent, thanks in part to their far-reaching lifespan, which rivals that of a faery. They have sharp memory, are able to retain vast amounts of information, and so they know better than to prey on livestock.

Jaskier’s steps are light and soundless. He approaches slowly; the dragon’s enormity continues to grow in his vision until he easily believes she’s capable of carrying off three cattle at once. When he comes within a couple dozen feet, the dragon’s nostrils suddenly flare. She inhales deeply, taking in his scent. Then, she blows a long, hot stream of air in his face. Jaskier winces, lifts an arm to block his head and takes a stumbling step back.

The dragon’s eyes snap open. The floor reverberates with a low, throaty bellow that comes from deep within her chest— _replete_ with magic, he’s certain—causing little pebbles to clatter like chattering teeth. Her arrow-shaped head lifts slowly and angles itself towards him. Her lips curl back in a snarl. Her eyes—black slits for pupils, surrounded by a warm sunflower-yellow—narrow contemptuously.

She strikes like a viper. Jaskier barely manages to avoid her incisors—which he notices, much to his horror, are finely serrated. The raven takes flight, calling alarmedly and circling the cavern. The dragon watches the bird intently, then tries to catch it mid-air in its mouth. Her jaw audibly snaps closed over and over.

“Stop! _Please!_ ” the bird wails in between its own terrified caws. “We come in peace!”

“Peace? You faeries think you’re _funny_ ,” says the dragoness. The words are accompanied by another rib-rattling growl.

Jaskier swallows dryly and looks up at her with his arms still raised protectively in front of his face. She _radiates_ heat. “Ah—no! I-I—”

“You find it _entertaining_ , don’t you? To imprison an _endangered_ species who is _with_ —”

“No!” Jaskier blurts, his voice raining down from the bird above. The dragon twists her neck to bite at the raven again. Jaskier waves his hands frantically, trying to regain her attention so she wouldn’t _eat_ his voice. When she looks back at him, he cowers. “I don’t think that’s funny at all _._ ”

The dragon braces a paw on the floor and pushes against the chains in an attempt to stand. But the enchanted metal holds fast.

“Sneaking up on me while I sleep in my own den?” she says, “That’s a low blow—a _human_ tactic. Noros was right about your kind. I should have heeded the lesson his life taught before I made these wilds my home. But the abundance of food here was tempting for one who intends to raise a whelp.”

Putting faith in the fact that she hasn’t swallowed him yet, Jaskier forces himself to unfurl a little. The raven returns to his shoulder.

“I just want to talk,” he says.

The dragon reels her head back, appearing affronted. “And who are _you?_ ”

“My name is Jaskier. I—”

“You’re a _skrull,”_ she interrupts, snout wrinkling. “I can tell by your scent alone, always like the woods in the fall. Rotting wood and wet leaf litter; _petrichor_ , with a hint of overripe apples. Skrulls smell of endings—of the old, tired year preparing to lay down and wither away in the cold. I must say, the sprite in the gaudy robes smelled much more appetizing.”

Her eyes narrow scrutinizingly. She adds, “Is that why you’re here? There is no other logical reason you’d _dare_ get this close to me, other than that you’ve accepted your inevitable death. So, which is it? Has that _awful witch_ sent me a sacrifice as some sort of atonement, or is this a trick?” She begins sniffing him all over. Jaskier goes rigid, ignoring the way every bone in his body tells him to run. “Have they laced you with nightshade? Monkshood? Yew, perhaps?” The last syllable ends with a hiss that makes Jaskier’s hair stand on end.

“I’m not _a meal_.” He stumbles back and raises his arms again. “And what did Vescailla do that would require atonement?”

“Hmm. Your confusion seems genuine,” the dragoness says, and then doesn’t speak again for a long moment.

She stares. Jaskier finds himself mesmerized by her eyes. The irises have complex linear patterns in them, like nebulae. Up close, the yellow color gives way to a rust-orange closer to the pupil, which is currently pinning with some form of excitement. He hopes it’s more inquisitive than anticipatory. 

Her silvery voice eventually jolts him out of his appreciative trance. “Fine. You want to talk? Then I’ll indulge your ignorance. Your queen may put on an impressive front while she’s able to hide in the safety of her own woods. In truth, she is a selfish coward.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows push together. He takes a step closer. “How?”

“Vescailla left Noros to _die_ so she could save her own skin. All the dragons of the north have heard whispers of her betrayal. We do not forget.”

Jaskier wilts, suddenly very aware of, and ashamed by, his own blood. He shakes the feeling off in favor of picking apart her words. She keeps mentioning the same name. “Who is Noros?”

“Why, he was my _grandfather_ ,” she says. “I see your queen has conveniently failed to mention his name to any of you. I’m sure she buried his memory as deeply as the mire has his bones over the millennia.”

 _Millennia? Dragons hold one_ hell _of a grudge._

Jaskier glances over to the barrels of water, remembering his reason for being there. But in that moment, he finds his priorities have shifted. He ducks and starts tugging at her chains.

The dragoness watches with a tilted head. “ _What_ are you doing?”

“Getting you out of here," he grunts. "I won’t do to you what my mother did to Noros. You don’t deserve this.”

“The fae witch is your mother? So, you’re the _prince_. I _thought_ I smelled the spice of magic on you.”

Jaskier doesn’t answer. He’s gritting his teeth and pulling at the metal until his knuckles turn white and his arms shake. It’s a useless effort. The binds are enchanted. He doesn’t know the spell, and has even less of a clue about how to undo it.

The dragoness presses. “Why are you so intent on freeing me?”

“I’m not like Vescailla.”

“Curious.”

Jaskier interprets her tone as cynical. He can’t blame her. He clarifies, the raven mimicking his breathlessness as he continues to fight the chains, “Besides, I know how this is going to play out...I was sent here to convince you to drink. You’re dehydrated, but you won’t swallow a _single_ mouthful so long as you’re imprisoned here, correct? ...Doesn’t matter what I say. You’ll _die_ before you help us...won’t allow yourself to persist long enough to lay an egg that would be subject to the same captive fate...I’m right, aren't I?”

“Perceptive,” the dragoness drawls. After another moment of watching the faery struggle, she adds, dryly, “So, if you’re _not_ a sacrifice, then what I’m witnessing is a traitor in the act. Tell me, does inclination towards treachery run in the family?”

Jaskier stands and wipes his brow, her words giving him pause—he wasn’t thinking of it _that_ way. He shoves the thought down angrily and returns to pulling. “They dance around the word,” he says, “but the truth is the faeries plan to _enslave_ you. I won’t leave you here to rot. I won’t subject your unborn child to this. I _don’t care_ if it gets me into—”

“Stop!”

Jaskier flinches and spins toward the source, already knowing who it is and dreading the ensuing conversation. Asper emerges from around the corner and moves swiftly over to him, but makes a point to stay out of the dragon’s reach. “ _What_ in Gaia’s name are you doing? I brought you here to knock some sense into her, not set her free!”

The king’s guards line up behind him. There are a good two dozen—more than there were originally. Asper likely assumed the worst would occur and called for backup while the skrull cowered in the dragon’s shadow.

Jaskier bows slightly, dipping his antlers down and spreading his glossy wings wide, trying to send a warning to the—admittedly intimidating—wall of sprites. Intimidating, not because he didn’t believe he could best them. Rather, he knows he _very much_ could. He doesn’t want to play the monster card. He doesn't want to hurt anyone else. He swore off abusing his strength, and he’s terrified of losing control again, even though Asper and his subjects were really starting to _piss him off_ , and it would be _so fucking easy_ to—

“This is wrong,” he says calmly, shoving the thought aside and taking a deep breath.

“This is _necessary,_ ” Asper says. _“_ It’s just _one_ dragon. A small cost for a monumental difference.”

“I’m sorry...I can’t allow this in good conscience. You need to find some other way to heal yourselves.” 

“There _is no_ other way!” the king thunders. Jaskier flinches and stumbles a few steps closer to the dragon. He swallows, feeling pressured from both sides.

_Please don’t eat me while my back is turned…_

Jaskier is about to argue—to insist that there’s _always_ another way—but Asper speaks first, his tone dipping even deeper, “When are you going to grow up? When are you going to start acting like a _king?_ ”

Jaskier's unspoken words dissolve in his throat. He starts eyeing the exit and silently forming an escape plan. He says, the raven hiding the nervous wobble in his voice, “Vescailla will undo the spell on the chains if I ask. She disapproved of this idea from the beginning.”

“That’s only because Vescailla has an _irrational_ fear of the overgrown lizards! I do not.”

It’s clear that the king isn’t going to yield. Jaskier launches himself into the air, intending to reach the tunnel by soaring over their heads and then bolting like a rabbit until he got back to the surface. But something sharp pierces his shoulder, burying itself precisely in the joint and crippling one of his wings.

He falls, and the sprites scramble out of the way as he crashes clumsily onto the stone, scraping his cheek and elbows. He blinks and looks up, disoriented, and spots one of the guards—

No. She’s not just a guard. He recognizes the insignia on her shoulder. She’s the new _commander,_ and she's aiming a bow at him that’s already nocked with a second obsidian arrow. The look she’s giving him is hard to read, partially because a lock of black hair covers one of her eyes, and in part because what he _can_ see of her face is devoid of emotion.

The skrull looks at the rest of the sprites surrounding him and notices there’s not a single fighting staff among them. Nothing but the curve of hickory and glint of cleaved stone. _Less than a year, and they’ve already reverted to their old ways..._ He winces as the pain in his wing catches up to him. _They must feel safer carrying deadlier weapons, but..._ He feels a pang in his heart; an echo reminiscent of watching Ren _die_ all over again. He grits his teeth against the swell of emotion, fighting back frustrated tears.

Asper looms over him with his hands folded neatly behind his back and his features darkened by the backlight of the torches above. “You’re not ruining this for me. I’ve worked too hard to get this far,” he says. “Besides, it seems you’re forgetting something crucial. We need protection from iron now more than ever, because you escalated tensions with the humans. _You,_ Jaskier.”

The skrull’s breath catches. His eyes widen. The sourness of guilt spills into his stomach.

Asper continues, “You made a _choice_ and now you must live with the consequences of that choice. You’ve an obligation, a social responsibility, to allow us to do what needs to be done to remedy the problem that _you_ created. Our _lives_ are in danger—and _no_ , we’re not involving Vescailla. It’s clear this dragon has some kind of personal grudge against her. The queen will only trigger this untamed beast into a rampage.”

“ _You’re_ the untamed beasts!” the dragon suddenly roars. Everyone turns to look. She takes a deep breath. Asper calmly raises a hand and clenches his fist. The chains constrict around her, forcing the air out of her lungs all at once, in something like a cough. A burst of wet flames accompanies it.

Asper raises his other hand, equally nonchalant, and blocks the fire with an invisible shield. Jaskier winces against the heat that streams around the edges of the barrier and makes his eyes water. Flecks of magma slide off the shield and hit the ground, where they harden into black, misshapen lumps.

Jaskier bristles. “I thought sprites couldn’t do magic?”

“ _False_.” Asper doesn’t look at him. He lowers the shield when the dragon runs out of breath. “I don’t have Vescailla’s power. But my species is not without the capability. I’ve picked up many a spell in my years.” He nods at the dragon curtly. “Including the little charm on her binds.”

Jaskier looks at the dragon worriedly. Her mouth is agape and her breaths are wheezing.

The chains tighten.

“You’re hurting her,” Jaskier says, standing. His shoulder seethes with pain, which he does his best to ignore despite how loudly its complaining. He hears the groan of a bow string being drawn behind him, and a prickling feeling skitters up his spine. He holds his breath for a moment, already knowing where the commander must be aiming.

The chains tighten.

“Asper, that’s enough!”

“ _No_. She needs to learn who’s in charge here.”

The chains tighten.

“You’ll _kill_ her!”

“I won’t. I’ll break her spirit. I’ll prove to Ves it’s possible.”

Jaskier watches, horrified, as the dragon’s eyes roll back and she falls unconscious. Her head hits the stone heavily. _Thats it..._ He widens his stance, slowly, so as not to trigger the commander’s arrow. In one great gust, he sucks all the heat from the cavern and out through the winding tunnel leading to the surface. The torches go out instantly. The cave is pitch black.

An arrow flies by Jaskier’s head, coming so close it tousles his hair. A warning shot. Things in the cavern are so still, he can hear the wooden shaft clatter on the stone nearby.

“Are you trying to frighten me?” Asper's voice cuts through the silence.

“Unbind her.”

“If we let her escape, she’ll take revenge on us. Besides, we need this! Are you really going to sabotage our best chance at gaining an edge over iron?”

Jaskier doesn’t answer. Cooler air begins to trickle into the cavern, spilling from above to replace the suffocating heat. He flaps his good wing, drawing in the cold like a stormfront, sick to death of his sweat-dampened clothing sticking to his body. Renewed by the fresh air, his eyes begin to glow and he stalks up to Asper’s side. 

“Let her go, Asper.” His voice is accompanied by a low rumble: rolling thunder from above. Asper does nothing except narrow his eyes in the dim blue light of Jaskier’s.

Another arrow whistles past the bard’s ear. He stiffens, realizing the commander can now guess his body’s position based on his eyes alone. He begrudgingly reels in his magic, sinking everything back into darkness.

A tense silence falls over the cavern.

“Let. Her. Go,” Jaskier tries again. _Please...I don't want to have to hurt anyone..._

The sound of chains rattling follows his demand. The king must have finally relented. Relieved, Jaskier allows himself to relax a little. But then he feels something snake itself around _him._ It’s quick. Paralyzed with confusion, he doesn’t have time to react before the binds tighten all at once, rough with rust and warm from radiant heat. He feels a hand shove him. Seconds later, he’s back on the ground, his bad shoulder having taken the brunt of the impact. It roars with pain. The arrow is still lodged in him.

An angry squawk rings out, accompanied by a pained curse from the king, followed by the sound of fluttering wings. The raven’s voice becomes muffled.

“Leave my bir—!” Jaskier begins, but the words are cut short. Fear runs through him like a bolt of lightning. _My voice…_ please _don’t take away my voice…_ He tries again to get the bird to talk, but is answered by silence. Rage rekindled, he struggles madly against the chains, his eyes regaining their electric flash. Thunder rumbles in the distance again. _I could cause a monsoon. I could flood this whole damn cave and then hit it with_ lightning _and_ —

Jaskier shoves the thought away with great internal force. He won't allow himself to lose control.

In the faint light emanating from his eyes, he sees the commander bend low over him, an arrow pointed at his heart. The obsidian reflects the light menacingly. He knows the material is sharper than any metal blade. It could slip between his ribs and dig into his fluttering heart as easily as a fish cuts through water. Jaskier stills himself, catching his breath and eyeing the arrowhead nervously.

In the background, Asper calmly re-lights the cavern’s torches, snapping his fingers next to each of them, similar to the way Geralt uses Igni. Jaskier searches frantically for the raven and finds it has also been bound in chains, with its beak tied shut, and its body tucked snugly under the arm of one of the guards. It struggles, distressed, but alive. 

Asper waves a hand, loosening the chains on the dragon just enough that she can breathe freely. He then takes the bird from the guard, carrying it by its scaly feet like it’s a duck about to be cooked into a stew. Jaskier clenches his jaw. He watches Asper exit without even looking back at him, his garish robes fluttering in the cold draft spilling in from the tunnel.

“Take the prince to the dungeons,” says the king, before slipping around the corner. “I will handle the queen.”

Jaskier wants to yell after him. Instead, his pent up anger releases itself in the form of a sharp crack of thunder. It shakes the cave, rattling the stones on the floor and startling even himself. The guards look unnerved; all except for the new commander, who just stares at him with a single icy-blue eye, her face remaining frustratingly unreadable.

Jaskier sighs out of his nose. Intimidation clearly isn’t going to work. She’s calling his bluff. He begrudgingly pulls back his magic and his eyes return to normal. He looks at the ring of faeries watching him fearfully and begins to feel like the monster. Again. Doubt snakes into his mind. Is Asper right? Who does he think he is, going against his own kind, not thinking about what’s best for them? What does it say about him, if he's unwilling to make a small sacrifice which would result in much more good than bad? Is the dragon's life more important than the hundreds of fae lives she could save? 

He scowls up at the commander, waiting for what comes next, and feeling more and more like he _deserves_ it. The sprite nods curtly in his direction. A pair of guards grab the chains crossing Jaskier’s chest and heft him to his feet. One of them callously rips the arrow from his shoulder; Jaskier grits his teeth, unable to cry out with the pain. He feels the warmth of his blood pooling and rolling down his back. He doesn’t fight them as they pull him deeper into the tunnel, still acutely aware of the second arrow the commander's got set on him, even as they roughly remove the chains, shove him into a little cage and lock him inside. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Back to the Cave](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c3Ny06Hw4Ww) by Colonel Suns


	33. Chapter 33

Jaskier sits in the shadows in the corner of the little cell, away from the crackling torchlight. The echoes of the sprite guards’ feet are long gone, having been replaced by the soft, steady breathing of the dragoness down the tunnel.

Trapped, alone and voiceless, Jaskier must repeatedly push down his panic. He needs to keep his head about him if he’s going to figure out what his next move should be.

He decides to try meditating. Geralt seems to find usefulness in the practice. Perhaps it helps him think clearly. Or…maybe it just makes the waiting game more bearable. Worth a try, either way. Jaskier straightens his posture, closes his eyes and relaxes, resting the back of his hands lightly against his knees and freeing his mind to swim in his depths. He breathes deeply, from his center, and time dissolves.

He feels like he’s sinking, slowly, into soft nothingness. It cradles him, comforting in a way he finds difficult to describe. For once, he can simply sit and _be,_ without feeling like there's something being demanded of him. It’s just himself and a vast, breathable emptiness.

Until it isn’t.

A form materializes out of the depths in his mind’s eye. It’s one he recognizes: The fox. Jaskier frowns, not in the mood to be _consumed_ again, or to feel that strange buzzing sensation ripple across his body.

The animal trots intently towards him. Jaskier watches warily, seriously considering shaking himself out of his trance. He hesitates when he realizes the creature is no longer monstrous in size, and that its mouth is open in what looks to be a smile, almost as if it’s laughing at its own private joke.

Jaskier remembers that the point of meditation is to allow. So, with a skeptical frown, he allows.

The fox whines as it closes in, bushy tail wagging, and then it leaps into his lap. Jaskier stiffens at first, but then creature curls up against him, pushes his hand aside with its snout and lays its chin on his knee.

“What is your deal?” Jaskier says, staring disbelievingly down at it. “Are we friends now?”

The fox chitters breathily at him, then rolls onto its side, exposing its belly and wagging its tail some more. He gives in to the fluffy temptation and pets it. When Jaskier looks back up, he finds himself surrounded by a familiar grove and a different kind of darkness than the one he began with. His brow furrows and his eyes scan the immediate area for Ren.

He eventually spots the sprite up in one of the illusory orchard trees, stretched languidly out on a bough with her hands folded behind her head. Both of her messily-clipped wings dangle lazily on either side of her. She’s looking up at the canopy. The leaves sway with a breeze that Jaskier doesn’t— _can’t?_ —feel. Ren doesn’t look troubled, like he expects, nor does she look content. She’s…somewhere in between.

He calls her name. She startles and sits up quickly, straddling the branch and bracing herself forward on her hands. She says, “Gaia’s grace, I will _never_ get used to you appearing out of nowhere like that.”  
  
He sends her an apologetic grin. She leaps down, softening her fall with a few clumsy, but well-timed, wing flaps. After closing the distance between them, she bends over, leaning her hands on her knees so she can peer down at the fox. She narrows her eyes meaningfully at it. The fox just chitters, looking amused with both itself and with the ghost, in all her seriousness.

Ren looks at Jaskier with an eyebrow cocked and says, “I see you’ve met my…friend.”

“I didn’t know you were friends with a fox.”

“Neither did I.”

She straightens and offers a hand, and Jaskier allows her to pull him up. The fox leaps off his lap and circles his legs, eventually coming to rest by his side. The animal stares up at him affectionately.

Jaskier, still a little confused by the fox’s change of attitude, glances up and catches Ren glaring intently down at it, as if she’s conversing with it inside of her mind.

In response, the fox brushes its head against Jaskier’s thigh like a cat, teeth exposed in a mischievous smile. The furrow of Ren’s brow deepens. She looks nervous about something Jaskier can’t begin to guess. He watches her pale gaze fall away. She sweeps her hair over her shoulder and combs her fingers through it.

Silence. It’s hungry.

Jaskier remembers what the queen had said earlier. What he’d wanted to ask her.

“So—” they both begin.

Ren clears her throat. “You go ahead.”

“Um...Vescailla was talking to me earlier, about you and Cassia.”

“Oh.” The word is small, but full of emotion. Ren’s eyes flick back up to meet his, her worry warping into something closer to fear. Her back straightens a bit and her hands stop fiddling.

“Is it true?” Jaskier asks. “Did you really kill a witcher?”

Her eyes widen. Her lips part slightly. She remains still, her entire frame visibly tense, for a long moment, before she finally stutters out, “Th-that was—I mean, h-he had—” She lets go of her hair in favor of crossing her arms. She thinks for a moment, her lips twisting in displeasure, before she finally huffs out a dejected, “Yeah. It’s true.”

She turns partially away from him, bracing herself against his stare. Jaskier needs a moment to absorb the confirmation. He isn’t entirely aware of his own facial expression until Ren chances a glance back up, and what she finds makes her shoulders hike and her nose wrinkle.

“What? Don’t say you’re planning on lecturing _me_ about acts of revenge,” she says.

“No. Because that would make me a _hypocrite_ —and that’s my point.”

Ren blinks, looking taken aback. Jaskier says, “Remember when you first told me about Cassia? You _lied_ to me by omission, but later turned around and _went off_ on me in the basilisk cave for keeping the tidbit about my old travel companion being a witcher from you.”

Ren’s gaze falls back to the ground. She doesn’t answer right away. When she does, the words are so subdued Jaskier has to lean forward to understand them, “You didn’t need to know the rest of that story...and I was too ashamed to tell it.”

“ _Ashamed?_ " Jaskier jabs a finger towards her. "You _hate_ witchers, and you didn’t know I’d been with Geralt at that point. Vescailla said you were celebrated as a _hero_ for that act. I assumed that you, the commander of the guard, would’ve taken any chance you could to brag about something like that.” He gesticulates wildly, finding himself growing more worked up about this than he anticipated. “I don’t understand. Where is all this _guilt_ coming from?”

Ren runs a hand across the top of her head, ending the move by hanging onto the base of one of her horns. She chews on the pinky nail of her other hand and turns a little further away.

Jaskier notices the beginnings of tears in the corners of her eyes. It catches him by surprise, having never seen her cry before, and he realizes he might’ve made a crack in a carefully maintained dam. His frustration starts to melt and he takes a small step back.

When Ren finally speaks, her entire frame drops its rigidity all at once, her arms falling to her sides as she melts in defeat. “You want the truth? I’m all _bark_ ,” she sighs, as if it’s the most _heinous_ secret. “Yes, I was renowned in the guard because I used to be militant, decisive, precise... _ruthless_ …It’s how I ended up in charge to begin with. But, Cassia, she... _changed_ me.”

She swallows, turning her back completely to him and furiously wiping her tears with the back of her hands. Jaskier watches, his head tilted curiously, as she goes on. “I continued marching around, barking orders and acting tough because my job demanded I maintain the demeanor. But, the reality is, I’ve grown _soft_.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Ren crosses her arms again. She holds her wings higher, putting a feathered barrier between them. “It’s…not.”

 _Liar_. But Jaskier can’t blame her, knowing the belief was conditioned into her from a young age; that to be gentle is to be weak.

He asks, “What was so special about Cassia that she was able to break you down like that?”

“You already know...You’re so much like her.”

Jaskier sets his jaw, unsure of whether he likes that answer. “I’m guessing she wasn’t thrilled about becoming a leshen either?”

“No…Vescailla was not as open to Cassia's ideas or as patient with her as she is with you. Vescailla wouldn’t listen to her excuses about how she didn’t want to be a guardian—that she didn’t want to fight. Cass was warm, kind and open-hearted by nature, and she was a _damn_ good cook, having grown up as a tavern owner’s daughter. She was a master at bringing people together over a good meal, and she knew how to get everybody laughing and comfortable enough to let their guard down. Asper and Vescailla, for example, didn’t used to get along as well as they do now. Our two species didn’t used to be so…integrated. The way things are right now is, in part, thanks to Cassia.”

Jaskier listens with interest. There’s so much he doesn’t know. 

Ren continues, “She took notice of me and made it her mission to crack me open—I don't know why...why _me_...but she spent years earning my trust, taking bits of my inner scaffolding, _dismantling_ it piece by piece, and making it into a bridge rather than a wall. 

"I used to be bullheaded, volatile and quick-tempered... _more_ quick tempered,” she says. “Cass would ask me, ' _Why are you so guarded all the time?_ ', and I’d brush it off by saying that guarding was my job. I didn’t want to do the uncomfortable work of examining myself. But she whittled away at me over time and got me to realize what I wanted was _control_ in my life, more than anything. It's what drove me. I was adamantly self-sufficient, to the point where it was damaging, and it was because I was so _deeply_ afraid of being rendered helpless—of having to rely on someone else to save me. I pushed people away— _genuinely_ kind and well-meaning people.”

She shakes her head and is silent for a moment. Then, she says, “Cass helped me understand the humans’ point of view. She had people she loved on both sides, and she just wanted us all to get along. She taught me that sometimes a gentle hand is heavier than a firm one, and that a little vulnerability can go a long way. It was Cass who inspired me to try something different with the guard. _That’s_ why we turned to staffs instead of bows and arrows, saving the latter only for when there was no other option.”

_Should I tell her about the commander?_

Ren says, “We were close. You can imagine my rage when I’d heard the news of her death. When I went to the nursery to retrieve her body, and I saw…” Her sentence falls into a shuddering breath. She slowly shakes her head. “It was all so _unfair_ , and it didn’t make sense. Cass had momentum—she was _onto something—_ but she didn’t live long enough to truly put her ideas to the test. I…"

She trails off, her frame relaxing a little, and sinks slowly to sit on her knees. Jaskier settles himself down beside her. At first, she refuses to look at him and makes a point to keep one of her wings held between them. Eventually, the feathered limb lowers. She peeks at him over the warm-brown crook.

Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at her, empathetic and hanging on to her every tight word, but Ren huffs, screws up her face and falls heavily against him, shoulder-to-shoulder. She sighs sadly, melting like butter into his side and sliding down until she’s nuzzling his arm. Her hand worms its way into his. Their fingers clasp together.

He isn’t expecting it, but he knows it’s what she needs, so he closes his hand around her’s, snug and reassuring. He dips his head to the side, resting his cheek against her fox-red hair. _  
_

Silence. It’s stuffed to the brim and lingers a while. Somewhere inside of it, Ren’s tears finally make their way past her careful guard.

“I loved her,” she murmurs.

Jaskier closes his eyes against the rising ache in his chest, relating profoundly to her story and confronted with the memory of finding her trapped, ragged and bled dry, and the anguish he’d felt afterwards. It had been everything she'd feared, manifested in the worst possible way. She was made helpless, all of her strength drained from her, and he and Geralt couldn't save her.

"I know what you're probably thinking..." Ren adds, quietly.

“That I failed you...” he whispers.

“Hm?”

”...That I didn’t get to the village in time. That I should’ve left earlier. That I should’ve listened to my gut and that I—I should’ve made more of a fuss insisting I go with you two. Maybe then, if I’d been there, none of this would’ve happened.”

Ren tuts and gives his hand a squeeze. “Jas...You didn’t fail anyone. Please don’t think that— _I_ never thought that. It’s not your fault. This wasn’t _any_ of our faults. There’s no way we could’ve anticipated that gods-cursed amulet.” She pauses. “No...I was _going_ to guess you might be a little bitter that my first words to you after you'd destroyed that village were, ‘You could do better,’ when _I_ had, in fact, done something similar, and for the same reasons."

Jaskier remains silent. He had been. For a moment. But is, decidedly, not anymore.

Ren says, "If I'm a hypocrite—and I won't deny it—then it's only because I can't _stand_ to watch the people I care about make the same mistakes I had. I didn’t want to watch you endure that same pain. I saw myself in you. I knew you could do better, because _I_ did better.”

_But...have I?_

“That witcher gave me the fight of my _life,_ " Ren continues. "I threw _everything_ I had at him. I wanted him to suffer, and to know who hurt him. After the job was finished, I stepped back and looked at what a mess I’d made. I realized my actions were no better than his, and that Cass would’ve been _so_ _disappointed_ in me.” She sighs softly. “Sounds familiar, doesn't it? I didn’t know what else to do at that point, other than to look up at the night sky and spit curses at the universe. It felt like we were meaningless little playthings. What was the fucking _point_ of Cassia’s life, I’d asked the stars, if it was all just going to end this way? The universe left me hanging, alone, in all my bitterness and mourning. I didn’t get an answer until _years_ later.”

She’s quiet after that.

Jaskier lifts his head and looks down at her. “So, what was the answer?”

“Hm. It turned out to be quite dramatic. Kept flailing around and whining, ‘I’m just a bard, _blah, blah, bluuuh_ ,’ so I knocked it out with my big stick and dragged it to Asper’s so _he_ could deal with it.”

He elbows her tersely. “Funny.”

Ren quivers against him, laughing to herself, and then tilts her head up. Her eyes are still wet, but the expression on her face is the same _mischievous_ one the fox had given him.

“You always seemed so _confused_ by my unwavering faith in you,” she says. “Well, now you know why. A part of that faith is because you remind me of her, and a little of myself. But it’s also because _your_ ideas have momentum, too. I believe you're capable of _great_ things.”

Jaskier thinks about that, and they sit for a while in a different kind of silence. It’s comfortable.

“You wanted to say something earlier, when we'd cut each other off,” he says.

Ren tenses against him. Her hand leaves his and she looks back down. “Um—It was nothing.”

“You sure?”

She hikes her shoulders up. “Yes. Now shush. You’re ruining the moment.”

Jaskier snorts out a little laugh. Moments later, the scent of something burning floats over him, and he straightens. “D'you smell that?”

“No…?” She sits up.

He frowns. "It's...smoke...or something..." Fear rolls over him as he suddenly remembers where he’d come from. He stands abruptly. “I’ve got to go.”

“What’s wrong?”

“ _A lot_ of things, maybe? The new guard commander shot me, and Asper's maybe a little insane, and he took my bird, and I'm in a cage, and there's this dragon, and—”

" _Dragon?—_ Wait, someone _shot you?!_ "

"I don't have time to explain. I'm sorry, I've got to go—"

"Jas? _Jas, wait!_ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Ancient History](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HKEZVdUq9wI) by [The Crane Wives](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCoPTtb6E_Z6J7gVa6E8Z_Jw)


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song:  
> [Exeunt](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zyePJm6f9Js) by [The Oh Hellos](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCwfDOdW0FOILPpwJBcA62wQ) (lyrics slightly altered)

Jaskier jolts awake. A soft haze surrounds him, accompanied by the acrid smell of smoke, making his lungs ache and his eyes water.

A voice echoes from deeper in the cave. “You’re  free.  I’ve already apologized. Please, just leave us in peace!” 

He blinks tears away and sits up.  _Vescailla…What’s going on?_

“You’re a  _fool_ , witch, if you think I’d  _waste_ this opportunity to avenge my ancestors,” says a second voice. The dragon.  


A splash of light springs from further down the tunnel, from the opening of the cavern that held the beast. Through squinted eyes, Jaskier watches it play on the walls.   


The smoke thickens, pushing precious oxygen aside. Jaskier coughs. His body  fills with the itch of adrenaline, making his muscles twitch with energy, coiled for action, begging for him to escape. He calls up roots, intending to pry the cell bars apart, all the while struggling to keep his creeping panic tamped down. The plants snake through the cracks in the stone and wrap themselves around the cage, but the metal is sturdy; inches thick, and holds fast. Jaskier grits his teeth and pulls harder; His arms tremble with the strain. But the thin air forces him to give up shortly. All he accomplishes is a slight bend in the metal. It’s not nearly enough. Jaskier pants. His muscles burn with effort. Like releasing a bowstring, he drops the energetic tension used to puppeteer the plants; The  roots retreat back into the earth.

“What are you talking about?” he hears Vescailla bark, her voice echoing from within the flickering cavern.

Jaskier shuts his eyes and stumbles sideways against the wall, fighting a wave of lightheadedness. He mouths a curse and goes with Plan B: He ducks, lying flat on his stomach, knowing that warm smoke rises. It helps a little. 

“Have you gone  _senile?_ ”  shouts the dragon. “Look into my eyes. Tell me they aren’t familiar—that I don’t appear to you as an echo of someone you once knew.” A short pause. Then, the beast growls and says, “Don’t shake your head! I  see the look on your face. You _cannot_ _lie_ to me. Noroasthaernis was—”

“ _Not _ who you  _ think _ he was,” Vescailla boldly cuts her off, but there’s a slight waiver in her voice.  


Seconds later, there’s another bright flash, and the queen comes flying swiftly out of the cavern’s opening and into the tunnel. She falls clumsily againstthe wall and immediately dives behind a rocky outcrop just before a second  column  of fire collides with the place she’d been. 

Jaskier peers at his mother intently through the bars, wanting desperately to call her name. Vescailla presses herself flat against the stone, her chest heaving as she stares  wide-eyed  at the bits of cooling magma dripping down the wall. She  then folds briefly into a fit of  coughing, choking on the smoke, and ends with a hand flat against her chest.

Not used to seeing Vescailla _afraid_ , Jaskier’s own fear feeds off it, spiking dramatically. He shuts his eyes, grimacing and holding either side of his head. He presses his palms against his skull and digs his fingers through his hair, as if it will do  _anything_ to keep the panic from escaping his brain and consuming  the rest of  him. He  fights to control his breathing,  knowing  he can’t let himself begin to hyperventilate, as the air  continues to become thinner with each passing minute.

The dragon’s silvery voice resonates off the stone within the cavern, snapping Jaskier’s attention back upwards. “I will not hear your _sermon_ , witch! You’ve the gall to try and lecture me about my  _own family?_ I’ll roast you like a yuletide boar!” 

Vescailla bites her lip and looks frantically around the tunnel. Her gaze soon locks onto Jaskier’s. She runs over to him. “ _There_ you are,” she says, stumbling to a halt.  “Are you—” 

The words are interrupted by  the unchained dragoness _barreling_ into the tunnel after her. The  beast turns so fast, her momentum slams her scaly side against the magma-covered tunnel wall, but her thick skin deflects the heat. She swiftly closes in on them. 

Cursing, Vescailla spins and flattens her back against the bars of Jaskier’s cell. She slides down to the floor, looking up, frozen with terror like a fawn pinned in the sight of a griffin. 

Confused by the queen’s uncharacteristic decision to cower, Jaskier stands quickly and opens his mouth to command the dragon to stop. Of course, nothing comes out, and he’s left swaying with dizziness from moving too fast.

The dragon reaches out a hand-like paw and grabs Vescailla by one of her horns, forcing her to a stand. Jaskier, his head pounding, braces himself on the bars, watching through a pained wince as the beast snarls in the queen's face, eyes narrowed with satisfaction. “Oh, your antlers will make _fine_ toothpicks,” she hisses. Her forked tongue flicks out and brushes lightly against Vescailla’s cheek. The queen winces and tries to turn her head away, but the beast grips her tightly. 

The dragon’s jaw begins to open. Her saliva, thick from dehydration, strings across the gaps between her serrated teeth. The move is purposefully sluggish; She's clearly enjoying every second of watching the faery queen  suffer with the anticipation. 

Jaskier shoves an arm through the bars, waving frantically to  catch the dragon’s attention. The beast’s eyes flick up to meet with  his. He shakes his head at her in a pleading “no.” The dragon’s eyes narrow, but her jaw reluctantly claps back closed. Still gripping Vescailla’s antler, she stares at the prince for a long, uncomfortable moment, during which Jaskier feels naked; like she can see right down to his soul. 

Finally, with a disgusted snarl, the dragon lets the queen go, pushing her so she falls roughly back against the  rusty metal. She says to Vescailla, “As badly as I yearn to crush your skull between my teeth, I’ll admit I’m too thirsty to eat. My mouth is much too dry to swallow your  _stringy_ _old_ meat.” She then gives Jaskier an intense, meaningful glare, which sends a shiver up his spine. “ _Don’t_ make me regret this.”

Jaskier nods fervently. With that, the dragon turns, snaking through the tunnel and back towards the surface with surprising speed and fluidity. Jaskier and Vescailla are left to tremble off their adrenaline in silence. 

The queen remains turned away from the prince. Her shoulders are hiked and her back is hunched protectively. Her hands are pressing into either side of her head, with her fingers slid defensively around the burrs of her antlers. 

Jaskier knows they can’t linger in this smoke. Unable to say her name, he gently places his hand on her shoulder. Vescailla flinches and immediately slaps his arm away, swiftly turning to face him, her eyes full of fear —Jaskier's breath catches momentarily, still thoroughly surprised by seeing the emotion in her. Vescailla then blinks and shakes her head as if snapping out of a daze.

Jaskier  presses his forehead against the bars, his brow furrowed sympathetically. He  mouths the words:  _Are you okay?_

The queen frowns and looks away again . She shrugs half-heartedly, her cheeks flushing. Then, as if having realized something, she looks back at him and twists her lips. Her eyes narrow scrutinizingly.  


What’s the problem? Is there something on his face? Dirt? Dragon spit??

“How much of that conversation did you hear?” she asks, voice hoarser than usual. Jaskier shrugs, not really knowing the answer, and Vescailla’s frown deepens. She pauses to cough, then grimaces and rubs her face tiredly. “Right…let’s get you out of there. This haze is making me sick. I don’t have keys to sprite holding cells… _however_ …” She steps back, holds out her arms palms-forward, and closes her eyes. “Stand away,” she says lightly, and Jaskier obeys, backing himself against the far wall. 

He watches, impressed, as the  midsection of the  bars slowly  begins to glow red, then orange . He can feel the heat radiating off of them. Vescailla’s eyes open again; She lifts her shoulders and tilts her head to the side, calling forth roots of her own. She uses them to easily bend the metal apart, although the plants scorch, unhelpfully adding to the smoke.

The queen finishes her work with a wide side-step and a wave of her arms, drawing moisture from the soil above and down through the cracks in the stone. It pools together into a nebulous, floating puddle. She bends forward into another cough, nearly dropping  it. But, much to Jaskier’s relief, she steadies herself and is able to maneuver it onto the metal and quickly cool it off. Jaskier scrunches his nose and turns his head away from the resulting cloud of steam. 

When he looks back up, he sees the queen slumped forward, her wings limp and a hand holding her head. She begins tilting to one side. The prince wastes no time, climbing quickly through the bars to brace her. Then, he takes her wrist and leads her through the tunnel and back to the surface.

Once they’re out, Vescailla falls into another fit of coughs, dropping to sit heavily on the forest floor. Jaskier follows, taking deep breaths and gulping down the fresh air. He shakes all over and wipes his nose, wet with mucus, with the back of his hand, wincing as his head  continues to pound.  


They both take some time to catch their breath. All the while, Vescailla periodically searches the sky nervously, silent and wide-eyed, like a mouse expecting an owl ’s talons.

There’s a lot Jaskier wants to say right now, but all he can do is watch his mother, anticipating her attention and her next words.  


Eventually, Vescailla’s body language becomes less guarded, and she looks down at him and says,  still  breathless,  “You know...Asper came to me, huffing and puffing...his face red with pious rage.  He told me...told me what happened...called you a _traitor_ , accused you of not having our people’s best interest in mind. He...wanted me to punish and humiliate you...‘ _Clip his wings! File down his antlers!’_...He suggested I invest in a new, less ‘problematic’ heir. ‘ _You have time,’_ he said. ‘ _Claim another._ _Take them away while they’re young and raise them right.’_ ...It was an interesting proposal...You know what I told him?” 

The prince, who has since lowered his eyes and lifted his wings to hide behind them, glances up at the queen nervously, only to find her giving him a wry smile. She says, “I asked him why he had been _foolish_ enough to expect any different from you.”

Jaskier's  wings lower a little.

“I won’t tolerate that boorish _sprite_ telling me how to raise _my_ heir,” Vescailla adds, lifting her chin. “I know you, Jaskier. I knew your bleeding-heart would win your favor in the end, which is well...I never liked Asper’s idea. What did I say from the beginning? _Wasted time._ The dragons will not yield. Hmm-hmm...Perhaps someday you two will learn to take my advice seriously. I am two thousand, one hundred and thirty-eight years-old, for Gaia’s sake!” 

Jaskier smiles guiltily. If he could speak, he would admit she was right. 

Vescailla then sits up and wrinkles her nose, adding, “Asper had your _raven_ with him, too. One of _my_ faithful, respected companions, tied up under his arm like a bundle of hay! The _nerve_ …I asked him how he’d like it if I were to gather up all his twittering little sparrows, finches and wrens, shove them into cramped little cages and bring them to his doorstep. He just sputtered and held the bird in front of him like it was a _diseased raccoon_ , and then whined that it had tried to eat his eyes. Ha!” She wheezes out a laugh. “Serves him right. I swear, the amount of wanton, _childish_ disrespect he is capable of makes me want to—” 

The queen falls into another coughing fit, then pats her chest and winces crookedly, a single yellowed fang shining in the dappled light beneath the canopy. She shakes her head and waves at the prince dismissively. “Call your familiar,” she croaks. “It will come.” 

Jaskier wastes no time  reaching out to the bird,desperate to have his ancillary voice back and worried it may be injured. The raven answers immediately and enthusiastically with the silent, pressing flavor of energy he’s accustomed to, similar in feeling to a bat’s chittering reverberating off of a wall.

While he waits, the queen fills the silence , first with a pensive hum, and then with a strange thought:  “We’re more alike than you realize, Jaskier.” He looks at her  in disbelief ; Her smile  wanes and she  turns her head away.  “You must be wondering why things happened the way they did, in that cavern...Why I acted out of character, recoiling rather than defending myself.”

The prince nods,  his worried confusion returning with force. It was disturbing, watching that dragon so easily  bully her into submission—someone he’d always viewed as an _unstoppable_ force of nature. 

Vescailla watches him knowingly out of the corner of her eye. She says, “Mmm...I’m sure that was not the first time you’d heard Noros’ name uttered, either.” 

Jaskier slowly shakes his head.

The queen unhappily goes on, but not without an exhausted huff. “Asper said you spoke with the dragoness. She must have told you _exactly_ what she thinks of me. No?” Jaskier winces and nods, and Vescailla says, “Surely, she recited to you the same story that all the local dragons hear at least once in their lifetime. It’s a testament to the _cruelty_ of the faery queen;a warning about how she is a trickster, about how she treats her relationships like tools, _using_ them until they no longer serve her. And once she’s ready to throw them away, she doesn’t simply _break_ the hearts of those who trusted her…No, she _destroys_ them; wrings their necks and smothers them until there’s _no_ _thing_ left.”

She pauses, her head bowing to look at her hands, which are folded neatly in her lap. Her voice dips into something cold and bitter. “That dragon wasn’t there… _None_ of them were there. They don’t know the truth. I’ve kept this to myself all these hundreds of years, strategically evading dragons while they, in turn, haughtily avoided me. I sat back in silence, allowing them to spread their grief-fueled stories, bitterly crafted from the pieces I left behind. I swore never to speak his name again. I refused to go back there mentally…but I  _had_ , briefly, in that cavern.” She turns to him, appearing softer than he’s used to. “Somebody should know the truth of what happened that day...Would you like to hear a story, Buttercup?” 

Jaskier nods slightly and leans in a little, making certain she knows she’s got his full attention. 

Vescailla, satisfied, looks away and wipes her nose. "Noros— _Noroasthaernis—_ was a dear friend and confidant of mine, turned lover. I met him shortly before I was crowned queen.  I was younger than you at the time. However, like you, I felt _woefully_ under-prepared for the task. 

"He was hunting wild goats on the cliffs at the forest’s east side. I was captivated by the sight—I’d never seen a real dragon before—and so I followed him for a while, ducking behind boulders and scrambling around near the mountaintop to better see him. At one point, I wasn’t paying attention and I slipped, falling into a narrow crag and getting pinned between two walls of stone. He heard my surprised yell and came over to investigate, much to my chagrin. 

“When he  found me, he lowered his tail for me to grab hold of, and then pulled me up. He morphed down to chat with me. I hadn’t known certain dragons were capable of taking humanoid form before that day.” She smiles wistfully. “We hit it off instantly…I was  _enraptured._ He was confident, charismatic and intelligent—and _handsome_ , on top of it all, with dark hair, sharp features and  penetrating  olive-green eyes. Despite being only a few years older than I, he seemed much more mature. 

“When I'd received news that my fae mother,  Ethwyn, passed away unexpectedly, it turned out it wasn’t humans, but elves—younger warriors, inexperienced and on-edge traveling through unfamiliar woodland—who  fatally  wounded her. She approached them in good faith, decloaked, in the hopes of forming an alliance. She knew they were stewards of the wilds, just like us. The elves panicked when they realized their mistake and had tried to bandage her, not understanding that they’d doomed her  from the start with their iron-tipped arrows.” 

Vescailla pauses, staring into the distance for a moment.  Her frown deepens and her eyes crinkle sadly.  “I wasn’t ready to take the throne. Far-fetched as it may seem, I used to be _deeply_ unsure of myself. I  was still overwhelmed daily with the mere  _idea_ of ruling, and I was entrenched in the process of discovering the extent of my magic—I thought I would make a mess of it all. Like I said, dear heart, we’re more similar than you think.”

Jaskier stares, intrigued.

Vescailla goes on, “The  skrulls, wracked with grief, filled with  uncertainty and aching for a leader, would not allow me the time to process the loss. ‘ _Put on a brave face. The world won’t wait for you_ _,_ ’ Asper’s predecessor,  Nimair, had coldly told me at the coronation. I  was an anxious mess, shaken from the shock and  feelinglike I was _drowning_ in the responsibility.  I escaped to  Noros’ quiet, secluded  cliffside  cave any chance I got, seeking relief in him, mentally, physically—in all things. I would lament my troubles to him; He would act as a secret advisor and then skillfully melt the day’s tensions away.

“I trusted him. He was calm, logical, and insightful, and I relished in not having to think overly hard about my kingdom’s problems, and in not bearing the full brunt of  blame for the choices I made—even if I was the only one who knew."  


She pauses and tilts her head down in a quiet sigh. "But it went too far. I leaned so heavily on his advice that it  reached  the point where I felt  _incapable_ of making a decision on my own. I lost faith in my own thoughts and opinions, telling myself I knew nothing...I was so afraid of screwing up the kingdom. I became his puppet, faithfully listening to his whispers in my ears, even when his advice didn’t sit well with me…That’s when things  began to  unravel.  


“The feeling started in my gut, that something wasn't right. My rosy-eyed  fondness for him began to fade and the differences between himself and I gradually made themselves known. Power will exacerbate the qualities you already have. Most notable of these in Noroasthaernis was that he was possessive, and he was aware of his size, and used this to his advantage.  There were moments he would get testy and would push me around. I’d often return to the castle hiding bruises.  He’d smile and soften and brush his behavior off as a _joke_ when I’d come away shaken by him. But he would later turn around and make threats if I tried to challenge him in any manner.

“He wanted to control me, later _insisting_ on knowing my every move, who I spoke with and where I went. To put it simply, he considered me part of his treasure hoard—that I was _his;_ I _belonged_ to him. And _I_ kept coming back, like a damn fool. I was _willfully_ blind for so long, denying the extent of damage he was doing to me, and to the kingdom, because, despite everything, I still _loved_ him. I kept making excuses for him. Kept circling back to his lair, quivering with the hope that he would change. 

“It took far longer than I care to admit, but one day, I finally snapped out of it. It took me _weeks_ to work up the nerve, but I was able to tell him that we were finished. For good. I wasn't coming back, I deserved better, and I didn't _need_ him. It took all of my strength to say it; It was the first decision I’d made entirely on my own in  _years..._ He threw a massive fit, morphing into his dragon form and towering over me. When I stood my ground, he  swiped at me with his claws. So I fled, taking to the sky. He, of course, pursued, all the while swearing that he’d _kill_ me—that if he couldn’t have me, then _no one_ could.”

Vescailla pauses and closes her eyes, her brow furrowing more deeply, and her frown becoming more strained with a rise of emotion. Her hands, still folded neatly, begin to wring together in a subdued attempt to dispel her tension. 

It's silent for a moment. Jaskier waits for her patiently, still struggling to wrap his mind around her words. Even if he had a voice, he wouldn’t know what to say.

Then, soft and mournful,  the queen sings:

_ I was all alone, we were young, he was like wine   
Heady as the fog rolling in o'er the hillside   
Lovely as the song in the air as the wind blows   
Opiate as the cold of the frost on the windows   
Lo, the rose had gone from my eyes—so deceiving   
So, I said, “My dove, I'm afraid I am leaving.” _

"He chased me like a hawk after a sparrow," she goes on, "strategically herding me away from the direction of the castle. I would try to outwit him, but he’d cut me off by sending fire my way, singeing my wings again and again, until I could barely keep myself in the air.”

_Now, I am not the fool. I was, when I was younger.   
Crocodile eyes, I had seen how he hungered   
Fluttering his lashes, like ashes and embers   
Warm and bright as fire devouring timber   
No, I couldn’t trust what he'd said when he’s grieving   
So, I said, “I'm sorry, but still, I am leaving.” _

“We ended up over the marshlands of  Velen before my wings were  finally  rendered _useless._ I dropped, landing roughly along a muddy bank. Noros laughed and dove triumphantly for me.”

_Even when he’d hunt me with ire, relentless  
_ _ Threw me to the ground where I’d cower, defenseless  
_ _ But I would not abide all his raging and reaving  
_ _I had set my mind, and my will: I was leaving..._

"I used my magic to cast mud in his eyes,” Vescailla continues. “Blinded, Noros collided inelegantly with the mire—more liquid than earthen—becoming trapped. His weight worked against him, pushing him deeper and deeper while he roared and struggled madly, flapping his wings, which were heavy with sludge, and thrashing violently."  


Vescailla’s shoulders lift. She turns her head away. “The bog  gradually  swallowed him. All the while he begged for my help, promising to change...I _almost_ believed him. In the end, I said I was done with his _lies_. I turned towards home and walked, nursing my bruised limbs and frayed wings, and leaving him to drown, or starve, or be eaten alive by the numerous monsters lurking there...”

Just then, Jaskier’s raven arrives, emerging from the canopy with a caw and landing at his feet. He scoops it up and hugs it tightly, and the bird grumbles affectionately into his chest. Vescailla pauses, watching the bard and the bird with a small, pleasant smile.  


After a moment, Jaskier gives her an expectant look, and she goes on. “In the succeeding years, I healed and I grew as a leader, slowly learning to trust my own instincts. It was a long, difficult climb, and it wasn’t graceful. One day, I was finally able to gather my courage and return to the swamp, half-expecting  Noros to still be there, moaning and spitting threats at me. But I found nothing but the dragon's skeleton. The sight of those old bones shifted something within me. I took his thorny skull.”

Jaskier cocks an eyebrow, finding the notion odd. Vescailla smiles impishly and says, “Ah. That’s _right_. You’ve never seen my leshen glamour, have you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Destroyer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2QpOcVQu3gM) \- [Saint Motel](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC4ZFn6TUncwPA0UI819Q3JA)


	35. Chapter 35

Too fatigued and fire-lunged to fly, Jaskier and Vescailla called for wild horses to ride back to the castle.

Upon arriving, the prince walked the queen all the way to her chambers (despite her protests about being able to handle herself), made her some ginger tea (more protests), and poured a bit of the anti-inflammatory brew for himself. At long last, he collapsed into his bed and drank down the warmth. As his body slowly melted into the covers and his eyelids grew heavy, his soot-encrusted nose, watery eyes and tired muscles loudly declared he’d had more than enough excitement for one day; He wholeheartedly agreed. After gulping down the rest of his drink, he cocooned himself in his blanket and fell into a sleep so deep he didn’t even dream.

Jaskier wakes the next day to a tapping on his window. The familiar sound startles him. He rolls himself off the side of the bed and throws the shutters open, temporarily blinding himself with the late morning light. A single crow lets itself inside, flying to land on his blanket. Jaskier spins towards it, his gut twisting with dread.

“What news?” he gasps. “Is it Geralt? Did something _terrible_ happen?”

 _We know not of the witcher, but we_ did _find his mare,_ the bird announces, puffing out its chest and tilting its beak upwards.

“Oh. That’s good. Good job.“ Jaskier sighs and slumps forward in relief. He closes his eyes and rubs his face until he succeeds in scrubbing the graphic memories from the forefront of his mind. Then, he unwinds into a tall stretch, loosening his coiled muscles and stiff nerves. He takes a moment to smooth down his bed-tangled hair, and finally fluffs and shakes his wing feathers into place with a flourish. It’s tempting to put off the task of retrieving the horse; to take a languorous few hours to eat something, drink some caffeinated tea and rouse himself for the day ahead.

But then he remembers his promise to Geralt, that they would meet at the crossroads when they were finished with their tasks. It’s been two days; The witcher could be there already, and he was through with making Geralt wait for him.

Besides, he still worries the witcher might still be…upset—he’ll go with upset—with him, for pressuring him to pick sides while _knowing_ the topic is a pet peeve.

‘ _To be neutral does not mean to be indifferent or insensitive. You don’t have to kill your feelings. It’s enough to kill hatred within yourself_ ,’ Geralt would mutter like some wise old sage any time the bard or, as was more often the case, someone _else_ , dared bring up politics. These conversations typically took place at taverns; gathering spaces where words are easily overheard and inhibitions are sleeping. This remained the Geralt’s go-to phrase, even though, according to most of the folks (drunkenly) adding their two cents, it made him look like a “fence-sitting coward.”

But how could Geralt _not_ choose him in the end? They’re in love! The answer is _obvious!_ Why bother putting the decision off at all? 

Jaskier clicks his tongue and shakes his head—He’ll deal with it later. There’s still one thing he wants to do before he heads out.

He makes his way through the halls, stopping at Vescailla’s room, and gently opens the door, only to find the bed unmade and unoccupied.

 _Up before you?_ says the raven on his shoulder. _She sure is spritely…for a skrull._

Jaskier rolls his eyes and gives the bird’s beak a teasing little shake. He moves on, stopping before the first guard he sees.

“Vescailla?” the raven blurts, and the guard points upwards. The gesture could only indicate the roof. Jaskier launches himself from the nearest balcony—the same one he’d first learned to fly on—with ease, gliding upwards and landing gracefully on the sun-warmed tiles.

The queen is sitting near the edge and looking out over the landscape. She is surrounded by a court of seven ravens, some of which are grumbling softly to one another. The prince watches them for a moment; Vescailla gives the birds an occasional, silent nod.

“Jaskier,” she suddenly greets without looking back. Jaskier hesitates, unsure of what he’s intruding upon. “I know it’s you,” Vescailla goes on. “No one else in this castle would _dare_ interrupt my morning peace for fear of having their wings clipped.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, long past being moved by her casual threats. “How are you feeling? I’m planning on meeting Geralt today, but I wanted to check on you first.”

“I’m _fine_. I told you, I don’t like being fussed over.” She looks over her shoulder and shoos him away with her hand. Perhaps he’s imagining it, but he _swears_ her skin looks paler than usual. “Your concern is acknowledged, but superfluous. I can take care of myself.”

“No doubt.” Jaskier crosses his arms and plants himself where he is. “But you were wheezing by the time we got home last night.”

“As were you,” she drawls, and turns back to the overlook.

“I’m not _two thousand_ years old. What would’ve been the harm in letting yourself sleep in?”

“There’s no need to disrupt my routine. Eight hours is plenty of rest.”

“Those dark circles tell a different story.”

“ _Jaskier._ ” She sends him a warning glare, but then hunches over and coughs. It’s rattling. He sees her pat her chest with a pained grimace before hiding her face behind a wing.

He takes a step closer. “You need expectorants. Lobelia, licorice, mullein…”

“ _You_ need to mind your own business. Don’t forget, I taught you everything you know about herbalism.”

“That’s precisely why I’m wondering why you haven’t already made yourself something. How do you expect to continue to rule if you’re not taking care of yourself?”

Vescailla doesn’t answer. Jaskier sets his jaw and presumes this is her way of saying the conversation is over. He’s about to leave when the queen gives him a curt, beckoning wave. He approaches and sits heavily beside her.

“ _What_ ,” he huffs.

“Our numbers have grown in the last twenty years, thanks in part to our stricter measures against the humans,” she says calmly, gesturing out over the forest. From where they sit, the sea of trees appears endless. But Jaskier knows it has an end; blurry borders littered with tree stumps and traps and glistening iron, which the humans, hungry for natural resources, chip interminably away at.

He remembers living as a human. He knows they are both insatiable and in the habit of shirking responsibility for what they leave in their wake. He knows, if not for the intervention of the fae—and the elves, and dryads, to a lesser extent—that there’d be nothing left of these untamed wilds by now.

Vescailla keeps talking, and Jaskier blinks, batting aside his swirling thoughts to listen, “The headmasters have come to me asking that more schools be constructed in order to accommodate increasingly overcrowded class sizes, but they _insist_ the schools be located on meadowland which our agriculturalists have expressed interest in being granted, because the demand for food is also increasing. We also need to take our plant and animal neighbors into consideration and avoid taking too much space from them.” She pauses. “What do you think I should do?”

“ _You’re_ asking _me?_ ” Jaskier looks up. Vescailla stares at him, her eyebrows raised expectantly, so the prince shrugs into himself and looks back out over the wooded expanse. "Alright...well, food is necessary for survival. So...I would grant the land to the farmers. But, the schools shouldn’t be ignored. Maybe some classes could be held outdoors, when the weather is accommodating? Astrology, horticulture, biology…That could free up classroom space, at least for part of the year, and would likely help make things more engaging for the faelings.”

Vescailla hums, and Jaskier has trouble interpreting the meaning. He adds, “I _hated_ being stuck at my desk all day when I was in school. They didn’t give us enough breaks, so I regularly acted up, making a jester of myself. The paddlings were worth it… _mostly_ worth it, because the performance leading up to my being dragged by the ear into the hallway would usually be rewarded with grins and stifled laughs out of my _equally_ -frustrated, but less bold, classmates."

“It was so _satisfying_ ,” he continues with a smile, “being able to cheer them up; to stir some _life_ back into them. It had a hand in my becoming a troubadour. This world can be so cold, cruel and unfair...I found higher purpose in bringing people joy and helping them forget their troubles for a little while. I would succeed, nearly without fail, no matter how down they were...almost like magic. Looking back, it probably _was_.”

He falls silent. Vescailla doesn’t respond, just continues to stare out over her queendom. Jaskier’s attention falls to his folded hands, where his fingers wring themselves white. He feels increasingly awkward, landing upon the assumption that the queen _must_ be silently judging him for his younger self’s antics. Doesn’t she know he’s matured, since then—since coming here? He’s mellowed out, become more realistic, less impulsive, more practical…and despite what Asper thinks, he has become _kinglier_ , damn it! Vescailla must have noticed, right?

“I’ve a confession,” Vescailla gently says. When Jaskier looks to her, she quickly turns her head away, occupying herself with petting one of the ravens. “My conversation with you earlier got me to thinking…I could've done better with Cassia.”

Jaskier returns his attention to his lap, saying nothing and doing nothing, desperately wanting her to elaborate, but fearing his obvious interest will cause her to become flustered. He tries to ignore the doubtful pang the late heiress’ name now stirs in him. He didn’t realize, until today, the extent to which he’d been living in Cassia’s shadow. Like a cloud drifting over the sun, it tinted _everything_ he’d said and done since he was first yanked across the veil.

Now, more than ever, he wonders if he’s enough.

Vescailla says, “I treated her ideas with blatant disregard…Thought her strangeness was a _fluke_. I tried being patient. I told myself she’d grow out of this _rebellious_ naivety by the time she was strong enough to challenge me for the throne. But she never did.” A pause. “It took her death, and the gods sending me another soul _just like her’s_ , for me to finally start paying attention.”

She runs her fingers slowly, gently across the bird’s glossy nape. “I _still_ think the two of you are fools. But, you are who you are, be it by coincidence or by the grace of the gods—who I suspect may be making a cruel joke out of our situation."

She finally looks at Jaskier, but her heron-blue eyes are narrowed slightly; challenging. “You’re convinced that the humans knowing so little about our kind is exacerbating the problem. You said you’re willing to try revealing your true self to mankind, subjecting yourself to the mortifying ordeal of being known, all in the hope they’ll stop fearing and hating us so much. Firstly, I beg you consider what happened to my mother. Regardless of how nonthreatening Ethwyn tried to make herself, those elves were still coming from a place of _fear_. Fear is about survival. It kills logic and compassion. Secondly, assuming the humans miraculously hesitate to shoot you on the spot, you still risk arming them with information they could decide to come back and use against us.”

Vescailla slowly shakes her head, returning her attention to her contented raven. “Now, I’ve told you my opinion on the matter, have warned you against it, and I will not repeat myself. It is additionally not within my strength to give you my blessing to attempt something so _blatantly reckless_ while I’m still alive. In their eyes, we are a dangerous threat at worst, and an inconvenience to be shoved aside at best.” The corner of her lip curls upwards in a little snarl. “That said, I am no fool. I can’t control what you do when I’m gone. You're passionate, persistent and _idealistic_ to a fault. I realize I’m only putting off the inevitable. I care about you. I want to make sure you stand a fighting chance. I want you to be as prepared as possible for the challenges you may face. This may come as a shock, but I would love for you to succeed, against all odds. It would of course be to our benefit, wildly unlikely as it is, to _peacefully_ settle this conflict.”

Vescailla glances at the prince just long enough to take in his confounded expression, and then she turns up her nose. “True, I’ve no qualms with taking out the handful of humans who’ve become too _cocksure_ about their ability to navigate the forest and poach from it—or, for that matter, with hanging their corpses from tree boughs and making horrific examples out of them. Sometimes they wander far too close to our nurseries, and we _cannot_ allow that. However—” She looks the prince in the eye. “—do you think I _want_ a war to break out?”

Jaskier shrugs; He’d never thought about it. With all of Vescailla’s boasting about her magical prowess, it would be easy to assume she’d be eager for a chance to show off, if only to teach the humans a spectacular lesson. Vescailla's orders have lead to hundreds of human deaths. But, all things considered, despite finding joy in acts of revenge, Vescailla never _hungers_ for bloodshed. She never makes the first move. She does what's required to protect their way of life. If he distills all of the queen’s policies and opinions into their basic components, then what's left is a simple desire for their modest patch of the continent to be left alone.

Vescailla goes on, “You think I wish to send my people—my _children_ —into a bloodbath? No. I’ve been yielding to the humans, _allowing_ them a taste of the forest’s resources. But it isn't out of kindness. It's because _I don't want to fight them on a larger scale_. I keep trying to appease them, to keep them just satiated enough— _just_ fearful enough of the unknown—to keep them at bay. But it will never be enough. I know this—I’m not blind. We’ve been slowly losing this game for decades. The truth is I’m..." She pauses. "I'm _afraid._ I don't want to aggravate things any more than what is necessary in order to protect our nurseries and forest, but it's getting harder with each passing season as they fell the trees one by one, closing in on us from all sides.”

Jaskier remembers the dragon’s words, calling the queen a coward. He didn't believe her at first; Vescailla put on a convincing act. But she _must_ , he realizes, if her people are to keep faith in her ability to lead them. He chances a glance at her. Despite her words, he doesn't find fear on Vescailla's face. There's only resignation—a harsh truth she's long past grappling with.

Vescailla says. “In small numbers, humans are little threat. I could _easily_ wipe out dozens with a swipe of my hand. I could level villages. Send animals for their throats. Turn their gardens into death traps. We have the advantage of flight, as well as the ability to pull ourselves across the veil, making ourselves invisible and rendering ourselves untouchable by normal means. But we’ve a _great weakness_ in iron, and if they were to organize a large-scale attack against us..."

She shakes her head. “Iron is a _strange_ material, able to cross the barrier between our world and theirs. You and I are just as fragile as any other faery in this way. One wound from that cursed metal—anything deeper than a simple surface scratch—and our fates are sealed.”

She falls quiet for a moment. The raven hops into her lap, and she absentmindedly strokes it’s chest with the back of her fingers. A second raven joins it, and Vescailla ruffles its head feathers with her other hand.

“I’ll admit that part of our current helplessness is my fault," she says solemnly. "The aid of the dragons would have been invaluable. But they’ve yet to forgive us for what I did to Noroasthaernis, and I refuse to apologize for it—I shouldn’t have to. I know the truth, even if they don’t, and _I will not_ be sorry about it.” Her voice lowers to a mutter. “Besides, even if there _were_ a chance to gain the dragons’ pity, I’m sure Asper’s stunt yesterday permanently squandered it.”

Jaskier frowns at her. She sighs. “Don’t look so defeated. My reason for bringing up the topic wasn’t to cause you despair, rather to bring your attention to one _particular_ skill you’ve yet to learn. It’s something you’ve asked about on numerous occasions…and to be honest I never planned to teach it. I never saw the point. However, I’ve come to realize you may find some use for it. I want you to have every tool at your disposal—you _need_ to, if you’ve any chance at succeeding in whatever perilous actions your beliefs lead you to.”

 _No way..._ Jaskier straightens, breath catching and eyes widening in anticipation of her words.

Vescailla, surely noticing his eager and expectant face, narrows her eyes. The corners of her mouth tug downwards in a disgusted grimace. “A _human_ glamour,” she spits.

There it is. Vescailla’s olive branch—the ultimate gesture of _trust_. Jaskier, grinning widely, can’t help but fall to the side and hug her tightly. The queen, taken aback, stiffens and lifts her wings high, grumbling in displeasure. But she eventually huffs, slouches and pats him lightly between his antlers.

Jaskier sits up only after he remembers something. “Speaking of new magic to learn, I saw Asper use some sort of shield against the dragon, to block its flame. Couldn't that also be used to deflect incoming iron?”

“What?” The queen rolls her eyes and pushes him all the way off of her. “Have some _sense,_ Jaskier. If there was a spell to deflect iron, you would've known about it years ago. The barrier you saw Asper utilize is basic magic. I never bothered teaching it to you because it is comically brittle, equal in strength to an _eggshell._ Its primary purpose is to keep weather at bay—fire, sure, but more commonly bitter winds, snow, or rain—elements that are _malleable_ , and whose force tends to be spread across wide area. A blade or bolt, with a concentrated point of impact, would shatter such a forcefield as easily as if it were never there at all!”

Vescailla scoffs and Jaskier shrugs into himself. The queen sees this and then sighs, adding, “ _Fine._ I’ll teach you that, too. But don’t you think _for a second_ it will protect you from anything denser than hail. Is that understood? No—that wasn’t— _ugh_ …I’ve officially reached my hug limit for the month.”


	36. Chapter 36

“Sir Witcher,” the guardsmen at the door of Mayor Gervyck’s building greet. One looks at the other, then back at Geralt, and adds, “No head? I was really hoping to see what the demon fox looked like. It sounded ghastly.”

“Let me through.”

The guards give each other questioning glances and uncross their halberds.

The witcher walks inside and pauses briefly, half-expecting Sheriff Moore insert himself in his path and escort him to the office. But there is no sheriff. Instead, a young man, sharply dressed in bright colors, stands at the foot of the stairs and waves him over.

“Geralt, I presume?”

Geralt nods and approaches hesitantly. The man holds a pair of folding spectacles up to his narrowed eyes. 

“Mmmn. No. No, no, this will have to go…” He circles Geralt slowly, poking at bits of his armor and pulling pieces of stray hair off of his clothes. Geralt frowns at him, lifting his arms slightly when the spindly man hums and pulls curiously at the leather strap holding his potion vials.

“Hands off,” Geralt growls and side-steps out of his reach.

The man straightens and meets his gaze, looking entirely dissatisfied. “Sir Geralt of Rivia, when is the last time you washed your hair? Or your clothes?” He wrinkles his nose and gestures up and down the witcher’s bulky form. “ _Any_ of this, really?”

“Excuse me?”

“If you’re going to be the face of this extermination campaign, you’re going to have to dress less like a swamp-dwelling godling and more like a respectable public figure. A _proper knight._ ”

Geralt curls his lip. “I’m _not_ a—”

“Kenway? Is that the witcher?” a familiar voice calls from upstairs. “Send him here, damn it! You’ll have plenty of time to play dress-up later.”

Kenway grumbles something under his breath, steps away and gestures up the staircase. Geralt sends the man one last bewildered glance before he makes his way to the mayor’s office.

Gervyck is hunched over his fancy desk, which is blanketed in a messy heap of papers, and tiredly rubbing his temples. To the left of him, standing straight and with his hands folded behind his back, is a man the witcher recognizes as the alderman of the town Jaskier destroyed.

Geralt freezes in the doorway and takes in the scene, his confusion warping into gut-clenching certainty as he begins to put the pieces together.

“Please,” the mayor says, gesturing to the empty chair in front of his desk without looking up.

Geralt sits and waits patiently as Gervyck gathers himself. The alderman bends down and whispers something into the mayor’s ear, and Gervyck glances up. Rather than meeting the witcher's eyes, he stares at his chest, gaze hovering where his wolf medallion—and, Geralt realizes with dread, the golden septagram—are hanging out in the open. Cursing inwardly, Geralt fights the urge to stuff Stregobor’s amulet back under his shirt, willing himself to stay relaxed so not to raise suspicion. 

Finally, the mayor straightens, clears his throat, and looks Geralt in the eye. “Did you rid Geisburg of its demon?”

“Not a demon. Just a restless spirit. It’s been taken care of.”

“You’ve killed it?”

“That proved unnecessary.”

“Banished it, then?”

“You could say that. It won’t bother the town any longer. You have my word.” 

Gervyck stares for a moment. Then, he reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out a coin purse. Rather than tossing it over, he digs through it, picking out select coins, and then sets them on one of the few open spots remaining on the wood. “I’ll give you half of the agreed payment now. You’ll get the other half when I receive confirmation of the threat’s elimination from the folks at the logging settlement.”

Geralt bites the inside of his lip, holding back an argumentative quip. As he slips the coins into a pocket, he sees the alderman whisper something else into Gervyck’s ear. Geralt looks between them, growing uneasy. He grasps the padded arms of his chair and bends forward, intending to stand, and asks, “We done here?”

“Not quite,” says Gervyck.

Geralt frowns, sits heavily back and crosses his arms, casually obscuring the septagram from sight.

The mayor gestures to the papers strewn across the desk. “Do you know what these are, Geralt? They’re letters. Each one from a concerned citizen of my district imploring me to take action against the Monster of Maugsville—the so-called ‘antlered devil,’ which I’ve been told by Alderman Sloan is actually a creature called a…a faery?” He glances at the alderman, who slowly nods.

“Let me guess. You want me to bring you its head.”

“Precisely. And there’s a lot of good in it for you,” says Gervyck. “Money, of course, but also fame. People are scared. You’ll have the gratitude of the whole city—no, the _entire kingdom_ —if you do this. You’ve proven yourself more than capable of handling the most vicious of monsters. I’ll throw in a full set of metal armor and pay for you to stay in our finest inn. We’ll get you cleaned up and presentable—You’ve already met Kenway in the lobby.” He pauses. Geralt remains silent. “Do you understand? I want to make you the _hero._ I’m formally offering to restore your reputation.”

“And I’m formally declining.”

Gervyck blinks. “What do you mean?”

“Killing that particular faery would be a breach of the witcher’s code.”

“Why?”

“The attack was provoked.” Geralt shrugs lightly.

The mayor sends Alderman Sloan another glance. Sloan is too busy frowning at Geralt to notice.

“The alderman may have forgotten to give you all the details leading up to the incident,” Geralt says. “The attack occurred immediately after Stregobor killed another faery. It doesn’t take a genius to realize the second faery was enacting revenge for his fallen companion. Stregobor made the first move by murdering someone who did nothing erroneous except to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“First of all, he captured the monster for _science_ ,” Sloan barks. “He wanted to keep it alive to use as a renewable source of blood. How were we supposed to know the damned thing would bleed out like that?”

Geralt grits his teeth, wanting nothing more than to yell that Ren was _not_ a “thing,” or an “it,” for that matter.

“ _Secondly_ ,” the alderman goes on, “The entire reason Stregobor came to Temeria in the first place is due to the mysterious killings happening all over the great forest, and with increasing frequency. I’m not only talking about assaults from stupid, savage leshens. I’m talking about ordinary folks who are dropping dead, littered with what _appear_ to be puncture wounds from arrows, and the survivors _never_ see the perpetrators _or_ the weapons—as if they’re _invisible_. The wizard suspected these faery creatures were the culprits, and based on what I saw that day, he’s right!”

Geralt says, “Have you considered the possibility that the number of attacks are increasing in direct proportion to the growth of your woodland settlements? That perhaps these ‘mysterious’ killings, are, in fact, _incited_ by a heedless intrusion into their home? You’re so used to the animals—and even the elves, historically—shrinking back perpetually from your advances. You’re not used to something standing up and fighting back, and you’re simply _baffled_ by it.”

“Don’t patronize us,” says Sloan. “If you don’t want to help us, _fine_. We’ll respect your codes. But we want Stregobor’s amulet back.”

Geralt tenses. He holds his arms tighter against his chest. “Back? It was never yours to begin with.” 

“We hired him! What makes it any more _yours?_ ”

“I found it on a dead man who had no further need for it. As they say, ‘finders keepers.’”

The alderman scowls and mutters something under his breath.

“Now, now, we didn’t expect you to hand it over to us for nothing,” says the mayor coolly. “We’ll buy it off of you.”

“It’s not for sale.”

The alderman begins to sputter in disbelief. Gervyck glances at him, and then clears his throat and folds his hands over the letter pile. He says, “That’s enough. Geralt, if you change your mind, do let me know. Simply name your price.”

Geralt rises from the chair, but keeps his arms crossed. He gives the mayor a curt nod and turns to leave.

Before he reaches the hallway, the mayor adds, “By the way, our Belleteyn festival is in a few days. My city is known for having the liveliest celebrations in the region. I hope you’ll consider attending. You won't find finer ales in all of Temeria.”

Geralt glances back and grunts, if only to indicate that he understood, then turns the corner and stalks swiftly down the stairs, brushing past an expectant-looking Kenway on the way out.

“Geralt, wait! I need your measurements!”

* * *

The lone crow leads Jaskier and his raven to a wide and worryingly well-trafficked trade route which cuts through the northeastern part of the forest. When the crow dives, so does the prince. Jaskier lands quietly on the edge of the muddy thoroughfare.

The bird indicates approaching riders with a caw. _There! That’s them!_

Jaskier puts a finger to his lips. Humans travelling through the woods are always on the lookout for feathered omens. If there is one crow, there are usually a bunch of crows. And if there are a bunch of crows, there could be a leshen nearby.

Jaskier dips behind a tree and bends around the bark to evaluate their company. Three mounted soldiers ride in a leisurely triangular formation. Behind them, a fourth horse, riderless, is led by a rope. The tack is unmistakable.

Jaskier curses under his breath, having hoped to find Roach blissfully grazing her way across a meadow somewhere. At worst, he tossed around the possibility she would’ve needed rescuing from a pack of wolves. Anything but _this_.

He eyes the swords on the soldiers’ backs and the daggers at their hips. How to go about this? Being invisible, he could theoretically just…walk up to them and try to untie the rope. But he risks startling the horses. And what if he’s kicked? Horseshoes are made of iron, too. That logic also crosses his leshen form off the list. Scaring everyone into a panic seems both unnecessary and counterproductive. If the men didn’t ride away with Roach in tow, Jaskier would be begging for a clash with those blades. Not ideal.

 _Hang on. This is the perfect opportunity to try out my human glamour! But I can’t just walk up to them as a mute with a wild animal speaking for me. That just_ reeks _of suspicious magic._

Jaskier rubs his chin and looks at the raven perched in a branch just above his head. _What do you think? Should I just mime at them? How would I say, ‘That’s my horse’ without actually_ saying, _‘That’s my horse’_ _?_

The raven leans forward and pecks Jaskier between the antlers _._ _Just keep me hidden on the fae side of the veil,_ it says. _I’ll stay on your shoulder and they won’t ever know I’m there. Just make sure you sync your lips with your words. You’ve long ago fallen into the habit of not moving your mouth when you “speak.”_

 _Oh, you brilliant bird!_ Jaskier plucks the raven from the branch like it’s a plump hen and holds it in front of himself. _I would kiss you if your breath didn’t smell like a rotting possum._

_Badger, actually._

_Positively foul._ He chuckles and sets the raven on his shoulder. Then, he closes his eyes and gets to work on the newly learned spell.

He’d practiced with Vescailla a few times before heading out, but found the illusion required undivided focus when setting up. Rather than blanketing oneself in physical objects, like in a leshy guise, or when someone like Ren would coat her invisible form in petals or leaves, this is a _true_ glamour that demands precise control over one’s body.

The idea is to present specific parts of oneself to the human eye, while leaving the other parts behind, in the faery dimension. The result is seamless, if done correctly. It's simple in concept, but more difficult in execution. That said, it is part of a group of spells which lend themselves more easily to those with vivid imaginations.

 _Don’t forget your eyes_ , says the raven.

Jaskier screws up his face in the effort to mentally craft a detailed image of his old self, grounding it in his memories of what he’d see in the mirror each time he gussied up for his performances. _No antlers or wings, shorter incisors, paler irises…_ he holds the image in his mind. Once it’s strong enough, he takes a step forward, crossing the veil and, at the same time, mentally detaching himself from his non-human parts.

Jaskier opens his eyes and lifts his hands to his head to check for antlers. _How do I look?_

 _Convincing,_ says the now-invisible raven.

Jaskier takes a step towards the road, but hesitates when the bird adds, _Don’t forget Vescailla’s warning. You can’t fall prey to emotional dramatics or it could break the glamour. Think you can pull this off?_

 _I have to._ Jaskier rolls his shoulders, takes a deep breath, and emerges from the woodline. He approaches the humans with a pleasant smile. “Afternoon, good sirs!”

The riders, now fewer than twenty paces away, slow to a lazy stop at the sight of him. The man at the head of the group wears a forest-green tunic and sports a goatee and a long mustache that’s turned up at the ends. He tips his hat, adorned with a pheasant feather, in greeting.

His horse, a sturdy black courser, sniffs at Jaskier, then raises its head and tilts it confusedly. _You don’t smell like a—_

Jaskier ignores the animal, bending sideways to see around its muscular neck, so he can get a better look at the rider—a _sheriff_ , by the looks of it.

“What can I do for you?” the sheriff asks.

Jaskier speaks casually, keeping his body language loose. “Well, it appears you’ve found my horse! She got spooked and ran off the other day. I’ve been worried sick about her.”

The sheriff glances at Roach, and then back to Jaskier. He lifts a gloved hand to his mustache and twirls the end thoughtfully, looking Jaskier up and down.

Despite the man's agreeable demeanor, Jaskier finds himself growing increasingly nervous under his gaze. He tries to keep his sight fixed on that of the sheriff’s, but his attention keeps being pulled over to the copious amount of iron accompanying the soldier. Chainmail, weapons, stirrups, horseshoes, the buckles and rivets on his horse’s bridle and its sharp-edged blinders. Jaskier can’t stop thinking about all the things that could go wrong.

The particular way the metal glistens in the sun triggers something deep within him. The back of his mind cries out in warning, sweeping up his thoughts and casting them into a memory. The recollection of the bolt burying itself deep in his belly quickly overwhelms him. His mind is flooded with an echo of that searing pain and of the helplessness he felt as Death wrapped its tendrils slowly around his frame and sipped at his strength like dodder vines—and there was nothing— _nothing_ he could do about it.

His thoughts spin, paralyzing him with stark awareness of his own fragility. He’s as good as glass. If these men strike, he’ll _shatter_.

Jaskier bites his lip and walks swiftly towards Roach. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just—”

“Hold on,” The sheriff blocks his way with his arm. Jaskier flinches and shrinks away. “There have been a lot of bandits around here lately keen on stealing other folk’s property. Now, we took a look at this mare’s tack, and the contents of her saddlebags, and it seems like she belongs to a warrior. _You_ , son, don’t strike me as the type.”

“W-well, uh, in truth, she belongs to my companion,” Jaskier says, his out-of-practice lips fumbling over the shape of his words. “I was just, um…just…”

 _Stay calm,_ the raven warns.

_I am. I’m calm. We're fine. This is fine! Everything's fine—!_

The sheriff’s expression falls from courteous to accusatory. Fear grabs hold of Jaskier’s lungs and squeezes, leaving him breathless. He stares, wide-eyed with the certainty that he won’t lift a finger against these humans. He swore off using his magic for destruction. But it also means he’s at their mercy.

The sheriff’s voice lowers. “Is that so? And why isn’t your friend here to collect their own mount?”

Jaskier’s heart pounds against his ribs. “He’s…uhh…” He swallows, mind going blank, his thoughts passing too quickly for him to catch and assemble into something coherent. All he sees in his mind’s eye is the image of his hand desperately pressing against a puncture wound that won’t clot. 

Suddenly, the sheriff and his companions yank at the reins, reeling their horses back. All three draw their swords. The metal shines threateningly; Jaskier is startled out of his daze.

 _Run,_ barks the raven.

Agreed. But he can’t will his legs to move. He’s overwhelmed with instinct; his brain electing neither to fight, nor to fly, but rather to _freeze_ , like a fawn in the grass, terrified that if he dare move, the wolves will lunge.

“Moore, what is that thing?” one of the other men says. “It was masquerading as one of us!”

“Those antlers...” the other whispers. “It's a deer man...a _devil!_ Just like the one they saw at—”

“ _Faery_ ,” Sheriff Moore corrects, his face contorting into a disgusted scowl. "They're plowin' _everywhere._ Just like the wizard said." He slowly sheathes his sword and reaches into a pocket instead. Jaskier eyes him, shaking where he stands. Moore’s arm moves lightning-quick. Something glints. The faery springs to the side and goes invisible. A throwing knife buries itself in the mud at his feet.

The two men behind Moore look around wildly. But the sheriff seems to have expected the faery’s defensive maneuver. He throws a second knife immediately, aiming right for where Jaskier landed. Jaskier stumbles clumsily; The knife hits his wing, bouncing off the shaft of a primary feather.

Roach rears and whinnies sharply. She starts tugging madly at her lead. The man holding her is yanked from his saddle, while the second grabs for her bridle and loses balance. They hit the mud and must instantly dodge her stomping hooves.

Roach whinnies again, her tone lower this time. The other three horses look at her, then at each other, and then join in, rearing and bucking wildly. Moore yanks at his horse’s reins. The animal rears so high it falls onto its back, pinning Moore’s leg beneath it. He cries out in pain and curses, slapping at the animal's flank.

Jaskier takes the opportunity and makes a break for Roach. Still invisible, he lays a harried, but gentle hand on her withers. She stiffens and spins toward him, nearly knocking him over. He stumbles and coos breathlessly at her.

_Roach, shh, it’s me! It’s Jaskier._

Roach’s ears prick up. Her barrel chest rises and falls rapidly. Jaskier strokes her neck.

_I’m going to climb into the saddle. Is that alright?_

The horse snorts and bumps him with her snout, sensing his position and saying, _Make it quick!_

Jaskier grips the saddle, glances back at the soldiers still grappling with their mounts, then scrambles up. _Alright, Girl. Let's go find Geralt!_ He clicks his tongue, urging her into a gallop into the thick of the woodland.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh deer.
> 
> [Dem Deer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=flz-qnjpDdo) by [Bryan Bowers](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCGqjBfc0Sl8x3Ig9uncUtMQ)


	37. Chapter 37

After maneuvering Roach for miles through thick wilderness, Jaskier glances back one more time to make sure he hasn’t been followed. He sighs, relieved, but his thoughts remain weighed down with lingering disappointment.

_That could’ve gone smoother...I lost my nerve, but things will go differently next time._

He slows the horse to a walk when the wooden directional post marking his and Geralt’s agreed meeting place comes into sight. Leaning forward in the saddle, he squints, just barely able to make out the witcher’s figure through the leaves. He’s sitting on a mossy boulder beside the sign, sharpening one of his swords with a whetstone. Jaskier can hear the slow, rhythmic scrape of metal to mineral. He pictures Geralt’s steady, deliberate strokes in his mind, and the way his muscles flex against the grain, and his belly swirls with anticipatory warmth. He almost encourages Roach back into a canter, but then an idea comes over him. He slides off the horse’s back, electing to walk the rest of the way, and puts his human glamour back up.

When Geralt's eyes lift from his weapon, he does a double take and jumps to his feet. “ _Jaskier?_ ”

“The one and only.” The faery grins and gives a flourishing bow.

Geralt’s cheeks flush. He stares, blinking like he’s seeing things, while he blindly sheathes his weapon and clumsily shoves the whetstone back into a pouch. “You...you’re…”

“Yup! It’s _about time_ Ves taught me this trick. Now I can _finally_ betray my duty to the throne and run away with you to live as a human in Toussaint. We'll stare out at the rolling vineyards, drinking fine wines and smelling roses, and live happily ever after.”

“Don’t joke. I might actually go along with it.” Geralt closes the space between them, his eyebrows raised and gaze combing over the faery. The first thing he does is place a hesitant hand on top of Jaskier’s head. He ruffles the bard’s hair and his ruminative expression deepens. Jaskier bites his lip to hold back a snicker, not used to seeing genuine wonder on the man's face. Geralt circles him. He ducks under Roach’s reins and his hand slides across the faery’s back, where his wings should be. “They’re still _there_ though, aren’t they?” He returns to the front and mimes Jaskier's antlers.

“Yeah,” Jaskier snorts. Geralt’s eyes zero in on the faery's grin, surely taking note of his lack of fangs. He then blinks and grasps Jaskier's shoulders.

“You’re _talking?_ ”

Jaskier’s smile wilts. The _hope_ that filled Geralt’s voice in that moment makes his chest ache. “No,” he says gently. “Just an illusion. The raven’s still there.” He points to his shoulder, and Geralt yanks his hand away from the spot.

“Sorry.”

“It says there's no hard feelings.” Jaskier forces his smile to return. But Geralt’s eyes hold a disproportionate amount of remorse. The faery, having long ago adapted to his voicelessness, decides not to humor the invitation. What’s done is done. What is, is. There’s nothing more to say about it. “So, what do you think?” He gestures at himself.

"It's...nostalgic." Geralt's blush deepens. Overcome with amusement at the sight, Jaskier grabs the still-mesmerized witcher by a sword strap and pulls him into a kiss. Once they lean away, Geralt blinks, his mind still catching up, and adds, "That aside, I'm impressed."

"You're _impressed?”_ Jaskier leans back further, still hanging onto the leather band and feigning disbelief. “Are you feeling alright?"

Geralt smirks and rolls his eyes. He widens his stance against the faery’s weight. "I know enough about magic from Yen to know this is neither a normal glamour, nor a screening spell that bends light to hide something. You’re not just masking your inhuman qualities. Those parts of yourself are _somewhere else_ _entirely_ , aren’t they?”

“Clever witcher.” Jaskier’s smile breaks back into a grin. "They're in the fae realm." He playfully tips back on his heels, and Geralt comes stumbling forward. They fall into the tall grass on the roadside, Jaskier leaning fully into it, and Geralt flailing a little, throwing out his hands to brace himself. The faery hangs on, using the witcher to soften his descent.

A shadow falls over them. Jaskier laughs as a snorting rush of air from above ruffles the witcher’s hair. Jaskier lets Geralt go and gestures dramatically upwards. “Now, stop being so rude and say hello to the guest of honor, Lady Roach, Esteemed Duchess of the Meadowlands and Purveyor of Timely Ass-Kickings.”

The witcher grunts as he rolls over to sit at Jaskier’s side. Roach nudges his cheek with her nose, and he chuckles, petting her gently along the underside of her jaw. “Hey, girl. Hope you didn’t run into any trouble.”

 _I make the trouble,_ the horse says, pinning her ears back and stamping a hoof.

Jaskier folds his arms behind his head, making himself comfortable. “We managed.”

Geralt looks at him, still petting Roach. “So, this might be a dumb question, but if a faery was looking at you right now from their side of the veil, would they just see a pair of floating antlers and wings?”

“No, no. They’d just see my regular, unglamoured self.”

“But why?” Geralt rubs the back of his head. “Sorry, this is a little mind-bending.”

“Well, it’s related to the reasons other objects from our world—our buildings, furniture and so on—don’t ‘exist’ to you until you’re brought across the veil. A human could be travelling through the woods and walk right through the walls of a faery house—and the faeries that live there, for that matter—and be oblivious to it. But the faeries would be able to see that human perfectly well.

“This scenario is theoretical, of course. Asper and Vescailla wouldn’t let a human wander anywhere close to our settlements or nurseries in real life, because there are certain things that span the gap between the fae and human worlds that put us at risk of human interference. Iron is one of those things. Ghosts Purse trees are another—although the fruit doesn’t share the same transbarrier qualities...and, um....”

He pauses, realizing he’s rambling, and examines Geralt’s face. The witcher appears a little lost, so Jaskier tries again. “Uh, okay, Vescailla once explained it to me like this: Think about our two worlds as steps on a staircase. The faery step sits just above the human one. So, when I bring you across the veil, I’m pulling you _upwards_ , in a way. Following?”

Geralt nods slowly and Jaskier goes on. “Faeries can perceive everything from our step down to the bottom. The same goes for you in the human world. However, as a general rule, those on lower steps have an extremely limited view of the worlds on the higher steps, relative to them. This remains true no matter where you exist on the staircase. Ves says there are steps above the fae realm, too. Some of the highest ones are where deities like Gaia supposedly exist.

“As you know, a faery can choose whether or not to reveal themselves to inhabitants of lower realms. But what you probably haven’t realized is that there are varying _degrees_ of perception we have control over. For example, if I want you to hear me, but not be able to touch me. I can do that. If I want you to be able to feel me, but not see me, I can do that, too. And so on, and so forth.”

“That explains a lot,” Geralt mutters, his eyes having wandered to the ground, accompanied by a furrowed, calculating brow. He rubs his chin and picks at his whiskers absentmindedly, his distracted hands having fallen from the horse. Roach has since wandered off to graze by the mossy boulder. “Why didn't Ren instantly know you were a faery when we'd first met? She interrogated us, but she _should’ve_ been able to see right through the glamour the queen gave you, right?”

“That’s where Vescailla’s meddling proves to be the exception to everything,” Jaskier sighs. “I don’t know how she managed it, but the magic she cast over me in my infancy somehow hid my true nature from both humans _and_ other faeries—until I was yanked across the veil for the first time, that is. Ren saw a pair of humans, but she could tell _something_ was off about me. It makes sense. She'd encountered that spell before.”

“When would—?”

“Ren was close with my predecessor, Cassia, who must have had the same magic blanketing her in her formative years.” Jaskier pauses, struck with a realization. “Come to think of it, if we had run into _any other_ faery in the woods that day, save for the queen herself, things would have turned out differently. Everything fell perfectly into place in order to deliver me to Vescailla. Universe fuckery, I tell you! And to think you _still_ don’t believe in fate.”

The witcher raises a single eyebrow. “Mhmm. Your abilities sound very wraith-like.”

Jaskier twists his lips. “They’re comparable.”

Geralt’s expression warps into something closer to displeasure. He stands and offers Jaskier a hand. The faery, somewhat confused, allows him to pull him up. Geralt rolls his shoulders and takes a few steps back. “Mind if I try something?”

Jaskier shrugs loosely. Geralt casts Yrden. The faery eyes the glowing purple runes around his feet warily, having mixed feelings about being the one _inside_ the ring, being far more used to watching the witcher fight wraiths from the relative safety of the nearest tree trunk or building corner far outside of it.

It takes a moment for Jaskier to understand Geralt’s line of thought. Once he does, he quickly glances over his shoulder—still no wings—and then looks back at the witcher.

Geralt is staring at him thoughtfully. “Didn’t work,” he says, sounding satisfied despite his serious expression.

“I’m not an _actual_ ghost.”

Geralt dusts off his hands and returns to Jaskier’s side. “Witcher signs are low-level spells. Nearly anyone with an inkling of magical ability can learn to cast them. The implications of that trap succeeding in pulling your invisible parts to our world would’ve been disastrous. The similarities were enough that I had to know for sure.”

Jaskier surveys Geralt with a tilted head, taking in the worried creases on his face and the grave look in his eyes, which seem to carry great weight behind them. The faery places a hand on the man’s cheek. “Mmm...You seem on-edge. Everything alright, love?”

Geralt doesn’t speak right away, just turns his head slightly away from Jaskier’s fingers and clears his throat. The faery’s hand falls limply at his side and he stares, dread spilling into his frame.

“What,” Jaskier says, voice lowering, so caught up in the moment that he forgets to move his lips with the raven’s words. “What’s going on?”

“You know I just came from the city.” Geralt shifts his weight to the other hip. He crosses his arms and taps his fingers nervously against his sleeves. “Well, the mayor tried to hire me to kill you—I declined, of course. But here’s the thing: you should’ve seen his desk. He’s been _swamped_ with letters from Temerians begging him to act. Now, he’s trying to appease the masses. The alderman from Maugsville, the town you demolished, is also lingering around the city, whispering into the mayor’s ear and riling people up with rumors and accusations.”

The dread sits in Jaskier’s stomach, twisting and gnashing, and doesn’t mix well with the contents. He swallows back the nausea that’s creeping upwards. “After so many months, I was hoping tensions would’ve simmered down and people would’ve stopped talking about it.”

“Quite the opposite. Thanks to Stregobor, the humans now have a _name_ for the invisible menace in the wilds—he made it _easier_ to talk about. In fact, it seems the word ‘faery’ has wormed its way into common vernacular. Your kind has become the target of blame for everything from illness to fires to objects going missing. ‘Faery meddling’ is now synonymous with bad luck.”

“Do you understand?" Geralt goes on. "The fear and hatred of the Fae have become _self-perpetuating_. Even if the faeries never lift another finger against a human, the humans would _still_ have all the evidence they’ll ever need against your kind in their spoiled grains, lost jewelry and miscarriages.”

“Fuck…” Jaskier runs a hand over his face and up through his hair. Weakness fills him. He slumps forward, resting his forehead against the witcher’s chest. Geralt’s hand comes to rest reassuringly on the back of the faery’s head. His fingers slowly furl and unfurl, and his thumb sweeps gently back and forth. Jaskier closes his eyes as he tries to keep calm. “Will you fight alongside the fae?” he mutters into the warm fabric. He feels Geralt’s heartrate increase. The hand caressing his head becomes still.

“I don’t think there’s a need to _panic_ just yet,” the witcher says carefully. “I refused Gervyck’s offer. It derailed his plans.”

“You know he’ll just craft another,” Jaskier moans. He wraps his arms around the witcher’s waist and bumps his head up under his chin. “When the time comes, you’ll join the faeries, won’t you?”

Geralt sighs softly. The dread in Jaskier’s belly writhes. His mouth starts to go dry. “Geralt…please, I _need_ you to say it.”

Silence.

“Promise me you’ll hear me out,” Geralt says. His low voice rumbles against Jaskier’s ear and the dread morphs into something sharp and penetrating. Jaskier's breath catches. He pulls away to stand on his own, looking up at the witcher with fearful eyes. Geralt is comparatively mellow when he adds, “I’m an outsider in all of this—”

“You’re not.”

“I _am_ , and I’ve been trying to look at the conflict objectively while I try to figure out the most... _ethical_ move to make.”

“The person you love is in danger and you’re contemplating ethics? This isn’t supposed to be a difficult choice.”

“This issue affects _far more_ people than just you or I. It would be selfish not to take that into account. _Of course_ I want to support you, but I’m trying to consider the bigger picture, too. That’s my _duty_. That’s how I’ve always done things. You know that.”

“Am I not worth making an _exception_ for? You’re treating the matter as if it's just another one of your contracts?”

“I’m taking this seriously by avoiding making any drastic moves until the situation develops further.”

“Do you consider a promise to support your lover a _drastic_ move? Do you understand how vulnerable we are? Do you know how outnumbered we could be? We’ll be _overwhelmed_ if we’re attacked. Even _Vescailla_ admitted she’s afraid. We—we need all the help we can get.”

Geralt stares at him, appearing sympathetic, and Jaskier’s frustration mounts—he doesn’t want _pity_. He wants a partner he can count on. He prickles from head to toe with the sting of betrayal.

“The faeries are far from innocent here," the witcher says. "Don't make that face. You can’t ignore the fact that Vescailla has been brutally taking humans out for _centuries_ , and—”

"That’s because they keep felling their way towards our nurseries!”

"But do they realize that?”

"They don’t need to know the details. All they need to do is have some sense of self-preservation and run the other way when a leshen roars in their face as a warning. We wouldn’t have to kill so many humans if they weren’t so stubborn.”

“But the fae are so _secretive_. How are the humans supposed to know they’re trespassing in another intelligent race’s territory? They view leshens as soulless monsters—dumb animals at best. You can’t blame the humans for not following the faeries’ rules about using the forest’s resources if you never actually told them what those rules are.”

Jaskier keeps quiet. The witcher has a valid argument. He sounds _a lot_ like the faery himself did when he’d argued with the queen. Part of the issue is a lack of knowledge. Miscommunication. Fear of the unknown.

Geralt adds, “Besides, even though the humans have _discussed_ taking action against your kind, and have made their opinions about the Fae clear, they haven’t actually done anything damning yet.”

Jaskier’s anger returns in a swell that crashes against his heart. “ _They killed Ren,”_ he says darkly, curling his fists at his sides. A stiff wind hisses through the trees and pulls a cloud across the sun. He feels his eyes begin to burn with light and quickly shoves the magic down.

" _Stregobor_ killed Ren. He’s not even Temerian.”

“Does that matter? And what about the mayor trying to hire you to kill me?”

"You, Jas. _Just_ you. And _of course_ they want your head—you’d _slaughtered a village._ ”

Jaskier bites his tongue. But his exasperation consumes his guilt. He jabs a finger at Geralt. “My point stands. Your answer shouldn’t be ‘ _I’ll think about it,_ ’ when I ask for your help.”

“Jas...”

“All I asked for is a simple affirmation. ‘ _Yes, Jaskier, of_ course _I will fight for you.’_ ” He shakes his head and starts walking away. “I should’ve _known_ you’d trip over your own web of philosophical convolutions...”

“Jas.”

Jaskier curtly waves him off. “I need some time to clear my head.”

“ _Jaskier_.”

“What!” He spins, snarling. Geralt puts a hand on top of his own head. Jaskier slowly mirrors the movement, and his fingers land upon the gnarled surface of his antlers _. Great._ He turns away from the witcher, ducks slightly and spreads his glossy wings.

“I was once offered a contract in Carreas,” Geralt says. Jaskier hesitates, confused by the shift in topic. “That year, a series of avalanches blocked all of the normal trade routes through Mahakam with enough snow and rubble that it would take weeks to dig out. The human and dwarf merchants, carrying important cargo, knew of an ancient pass that was created and maintained by trolls.” The faery glances over his shoulder, brow furrowed. Geralt goes on,“The trolls had long respected human borders despite the ‘delicious’ varieties of stone these walls were usually constructed with. They were wary of men, were understandably upset by the ‘invasion’ and refused to let the caravans through, going as far as to threaten them with a shower of boulders if they tried anything.The merchants tried to negotiate, but quickly gave up. They didn’t have the patience for the troll’s slower, clumsier way of speaking, and didn’t want to put in the effort to understand the cultural differences— _why_ trespassing was such a blatant insult to troll kind. So, the trolls became ‘monsters’, and the humans wanted these monsters killed. Enter the witcher.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “What’s this got to do with anything?”

"If you were in my place, which side would you choose?”

The faery rolls his eyes, but decides to humor the witcher. As he mulls over the choice, his fangs emerge from his curled lip as the answer turns out to be far from obvious. He hikes up his shoulders.

“ _Well?_ ”

Jaskier spins back around and throws out his arms. “Ugh! I _know_ what you’re trying to do, but this changes _nothing_. Were you _dating_ one of those trolls? I don’t understand how you can remain objective when _I’m_ involved!”

“Frankly, you’re not part of my decision-making process.”

“I’m not—? _What?_ ”

Geralt extends his hands in a gentle, placating gesture. “You as an _individual_ , and your kind _as a whole_ , are two _very_ different things in my mind. I will _always_ protect you with my life…You never have to worry about that. I’m just…not at a point where I can justify joining the faeries politically. I’m on _your_ side, but I’m not on your _side_. Does that make sense?”

Jaskier crosses his arms. “Geralt, that’s _stupid_.”

“It’s _not._ ”

“You’re going to protect me like some glorified bodyguard, yet you won’t lift a blade to defend the sprite who’s fighting beside me?”

Guilt crosses Geralt’s face for the first time since the conversation began. “It…would depend on the situation—”

Jaskier shakes his head in disbelief. “Where is your loyalty, Geralt? What do you stand for? Do _you_ even know? Pox, even your _code_ is a bullshit list you change on the daily! How am I supposed to fully trust you when I never know what you’re going to do until _the last second?”_ He turns away again. _“_ I’m beginning to think those opinionated tavern-goers were right. You _are_ just a fence-sitting coward.”

Jaskier doesn’t wait for the witcher’s response. He grimaces in disgust and takes to the air, darting like a swallow towards the skrull castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I realize Geralt’s mutations technicallyyyy render him incapable of blushing. Just humor me.)


	38. Chapter 38

He’s late. Jaskier timidly approaches the heavy, intricately carved oak doors of the sprite castle’s study hall. He gives the beak of the raven on his shoulder an acknowledging little tug, the two of them having prepared a succinct apology to the group during their harried fly across the forest.

A guard pulls one of the doors open for him. It groans loudly, and the muffled voices coming from within cease. The prince steps inside, surveys the area and swallows his words. The other three occupants of the room, all of whom are seated egregiously far apart around a long table, are giving him meaningful looks that all send the same message: Sit down and shut up.

“We’re fools if we think this invasion will stop on its own,” Asper goes on, returning his attention to Vescailla. Jaskier sits beside the queen and listens. “First it’s trees and traps and towns, now they’re mining _iron_ here? I’ve been trying to follow Nimair’s peaceful ways, but he and I are not the same faery, and I’m tired of playing nice. What we’re doing is clearly not enough...”

Jaskier glances up at the sprite guard commander, who sits dutifully at her king’s side, and tenses upon noticing the glare she’s still sending him. He immediately looks away from the single pale blue eye peeking out from a curtain of straight black hair, and pretends to be thoroughly engrossed in picking at a loose thread in the table’s burgundy runner.

“…and now you _skrulls_ are trying to actively sabotage our progress—”

“Enough, Asper,” Vescailla says sharply. “You should know better than to throw accusations around so lightly. You think you know everything. But your two hundred years are but _a blink_ of my time. I have guardsmen older than you. You’re barely more than a child compared to—”

“The only _child_ here is your heir.” Asper throws a finger in Jaskier’s direction. The prince yanks his hand away from the cloth and shrinks into himself. “What happened in the caves proved his immaturity to me. He is not leadership material. He’s far too emotional, he puts his personal attachments above the needs of our people and he’s blind to the bigger picture because—”

As he speaks, Vescailla slowly rises from her seat and places her palms flat against the table. Her back arches, her dark wings begin to spread and her eyes narrow in warning. Asper eventually clamps his bearded mouth shut, but he still frowns at her defiantly. 

“I will only say this once: It is not your job to _lecure_ _my son_ ,” says the queen. She falls into a cough. 

Asper snarls and slams a fist against the wood, causing the guard commander to flinch. “We had a _dragon_ , Ves! We had the solution safely secured and you set her free!” He leans over the table. “Have you two gone mad?”

“I could ask you the same question for having the impudence to sneak up on one in the first place." The queen straightens and crosses her arms. “I warned you against this. Dragons don't forget transgressions against their kind, and you've single-handedly _ruined_ any chance of us making amends with them.”

Asper looks away and sputters. His face turns red. “It wouldn’t have mattered. That single beast would’ve given us everything we need, because she—”

“Because she was with child? Even if I agreed with your idea, I still would not have allowed that dragon’s imprisonment to go on _precisely because_ of that.”

“Really? _Now_ is when you finally decide to thaw that ice-bound heart of yours?”

“The dragonfolk are an intelligent race, not cattle to be farmed,” Vescailla accentuates the words, bending forward. “The fact that this is something I have to remind you of is _deeply_ troubling.”

“The sprite kingdom is not yours to make decisions for.”

“Yet you overlook the ways your decrees will affect _my_ kingdom—as well as the plants and animals that live here. I never understood your reluctance to acknowledge that the forest is a fluid ecosystem, and that we’re _all_ equally entangled in its web. You can't tug on one side without influencing the other.” More coughing. “You know better, yet you're always the first to remind me of the lines our ancestors have drawn.”

“Because you consistently disregard them!” Asper throws a hand in the air, waving it exasperatedly. “Is my authority a _joke_ to you? Do you know how much time and resources went into that capture? And we did it without the help of the skrulls. The cave system where the dragon was held was sprite territory. By all accounts you _invaded_ my kingdom and _sabotaged_ my project."

"You locked Jaskier in a cell!"

“I had _every right._ The prince was threatening us! I’ll have you know my people are _furious._ We spent months planning this. The sprites got their hopes up. Here, finally, is the defense against iron we've been waiting for. Now, those hopes have been squandered, and they're convinced the skrulls have turned against us. They’re ready to incite civil war.”

The last word makes Vescailla flinch. She looks down and takes a deep breath. When she speaks, her voice is unnervingly calm. “You’re skirting a dangerous line, little brother." Her dusk-colored eyes flick back upwards, revealing a look of grave warning. "Your species may outnumber ours, but you and I both know who would prevail if you pulled anything.”

Asper’s face becomes redder. Jaskier can see the vein bulging on the king’s forehead even from where he is. “Are you threatening me?”

Vescailla sets her jaw. Her fingers drum on her arms. She doesn’t answer.

Jaskier squirms uncomfortably in his seat. He chances another glance at the guard commander, wanting to gauge her reaction to all of this. Just like in the caves, her expression remains stoic. Frustratingly unreadable. She’s come to rest her elbows on the dark wood, laced her slender fingers together and buried her nose behind them, obscuring even more of her pale visage. She’s no longer staring at him, at least. Instead, her eyes are fixated on the book shelves lining the room.

Asper leans over the table, seemingly inflated by the queen’s silence. “Your arrogance will be your _downfall_. You assume you have us all firmly set beneath your thumb, just like you have for millennia. But you said it yourself: You’ve slowed with age. Your powers are fading. And your heir? He has _no spine_.”

Vescailla bristles and her eyes flash with purple light. Asper doesn’t recoil. He stares at her in challenging way. The queen stands poised for a moment. Jaskier tenses, ready to dive for the floor should she erupt. But, rather than biting back, Vescailla appears to swallow her anger. Her hands tighten their grip on her arms, her nails digging into her sleeves.

Jaskier chews on his lip and his leg bounces anxiously beneath the table. He not only feels trapped in the buzzing air of someone else’s fight, but also that he’s been dragged forcibly into the line of fire. Asper is right. He’s not cut out for kinghood. He doesn’t have the fortitude to rise up and shake hands with Vescailla’s shadow. The queen’s wake is wide and tempered by fangs and claws, love and loss and harsh lessons learned; All things that would surely chip away at him until he crumbled under the pressure.

A deafening silence hangs over the room. Jaskier swallows dryly. He stares down at the grain of the table’s wood.

Eventually, Vescailla clears her throat and takes her seat. “I'll let your _audacious_ commentary slide this time. You’ve derailed the conversation and we should be focusing on the time-sensitive issue at hand. _Jaskier_ —”

The prince tenses upon hearing his name.

“—since you’ve apparently decided to dawdle on the way here, despite this being an _emergency_ meeting, allow me to fill you in. Our scouts have reported human activity taking place alarmingly close to our easternmost nursery. Despite Asper’s outburst, we've not, in fact, gathered here to argue about the past, rather to decide on the best course of action against the emerging threat. The humans have found _iron_ ore in the caves by the cliffs and are starting to construct a mine and a settlement around it. Do you know what is required to build a mine, Buttercup?”

“Wood?” Jaskier squeaks.

“ _Strong_ wood, and that of the ghost’s purse happens to be among the hardest locally available. The humans are well aware of this, and the threatened nursery is within _three miles_ of this settlement.”

Jaskier's stomach sinks. He mulls for a moment before deciding the young faeries should be their highest priority. “Have we evacuated the faelings?”

“No,” Asper says. “It’s out of the question. They’re far too early in their development to pick. They’ll die.” He sighs and stands, his chair grating against the floor. “I don’t know why we’re wasting our time. It’s a small group of humans. Let’s kill them all and be done with it.”

“ _Heel_ ,” Vescailla hisses, and Asper’s frown deepens. “Need I remind you we’re trying to _avoid_ giving them justification for war?” She rolls her eyes, then leans her elbows over the table and rubs her temples. “Gaia’s grace. It’s like the Fates have blessed me with faeries _handpicked_ to test my patience…”

“What was that?” Asper says, his face going red again.

“I maintain that humans can’t be reasoned with. Tensions are high. We can't risk poking the hive right now,” says the queen. She coughs once more into her fist, and then tiredly leans her cheek against the knuckles of her other hand. “I’ve ordered my subjects to cease all kills unless it’s truly unavoidable. I _strongly suggest_ you do the same.”

“And do you have a _better_ idea? Because those plague rats could be treading upon our nursery, brandishing their axes _as we speak!_ ”

“I’ll scare them off,” Jaskier raises his voice, tired of listening to the banter. The raven leans forward on his shoulder, emphasizing the words. He feels its claws tighten on his skin. “I’ll go in as a leshen. They’re just laborers, right? Intimidation should be enough.” He rises from his chair and glances at the guard commander one last time. She’s watching him carefully.

“Fine,” Vescailla says after a moment of thought. “Shall we send your witcher along?”

“ _No_.”

The queen shares a confused glance with Asper, then says, “Well then, I’ll send a few other skrulls as—”

“It’s a small group. I can handle this myself,” Jaskier says. He glares down at his fingers, which tap impatiently on the edge of the table.

“But if the humans prove stubborn—”

“They won’t,” he snaps. “The common folk are cowardly. You should prioritize placing guards around the orchard itself. Any fae you can spare should set off to protect it." He turns for the doors. "I'll head straight to the mine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a shorter chapter this time. Prepare for shenanigans.
> 
> [Dirty](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bRaMatWRK50) by [grandson](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC22gMfQuek7x6mdsoJ1qFSQ)


	39. Chapter 39

Jaskier sits cross-legged on the peak of the stony outcrop that marks the entrance of the mine. He peers straight down at the cave opening and watches, content in his invisibility, as miners travel in and out of the darkness. 

The distant, grating bugle of a leshen pulls his attention to the side. The ominous call is followed by a second and third. The birds have ceased their songs out respect for the guardians. The humans also pause to listen. They send each other fearful glances and grip the pickaxes slung over their shoulders a little tighter.

Jaskier shifts in place, trying to stifle his rising anxiety and protective instincts. The first of the humans must have discovered the nursery. Normally, he’d be eyeing the immediate area, looking for bits and pieces of the environment to use for his own leshen glamour. Instead, he sits. He has a theory, and this modest group is perfect to try it out on.

He learned from his last encounter: Approaching humans while masquerading as one of them is a mistake. They don’t take kindly to being lied to. If he wants to build a foundation of trust between their species, he’s going to have to start laying the bricks. That means being honest and vulnerable.

The distant roars of his brethren continue to punctuate the stillness of the woods. More men exit the mine, joining the quivering group at the cave’s mouth. They speak in hushed voices and keep their heads turned in the direction of the nursery.

 _You sure this is worth the risk?_ the raven asks again. It grips Jaskier's shoulder tightly _. What will the queen say?_

 _Vescailla doesn’t have to know_. The faery eyes the sharp, rusted iron points of the humans’ mining tools and weighs the likelihood that they’ll be used against him. But it’s too late to linger on ifs, whens and hows; The humans are right where he wants them. It’s now or never.

Jaskier takes a deep breath and allows his form to slip gently across the veil. He waits patiently until one of the miners glances upwards, gasps and points. The others look, all of them becoming wide-eyed and silent.

“Hello,” Jaskier says brightly. Despite his racing heart, he remains relaxed in appearance. The humans shuffle together like a herd of sheep caught under the hungry gaze of a wolf. They fall into a whispering babble.

“By the eternal fire’s light…”

“Is that—”

“A _devil!_ ”

“Faery, actually,” Jaskier says. “But I understand the confusion.”

“By the gods, a _real_ …?”

“Bit scrawnier n’ I pictured ‘em.”

“But look at its wings. No doubt able to spirit a child away.”

“Just like the priests say!”

“Why’s it got a _demon_ doin’ the talkin’?”

“Maybe hearing its real voice would make us go mad!”

“Bet you’re right.”

“Melitele’s tits!”

“What’s it want with us?”

“It _wants_ to gain mastery over our lives through _deceit_ ,” a baritone voice cuts through the others. A man with a bushy red beard emerges from the group. His chest is puffed up and his chin is tilted upwards indignantly. He shakes his pickaxe in the faery’s direction. “You speak our language, then?”

Jaskier nods slowly, eyeing the tool.

“Listen here! We’ve no need of your shady contracts and we aren’t falling for your tricks. I spent enough time in taverns to hear all about _your_ kind. We won’t give you our names, we won’t eat your fake food—”

“And we can’t be lured into your mushroom circles!” one of the other miners adds.

Jaskier tilts his head like an inquisitive hound. “Mushroom circles?”

Geralt is right. These rumors have gotten out of hand.

“Don’t play dumb!” the bearded man barks, still pointing. “You won’t get anything from us, you snake. Be gone!”

They stare at one another. Jaskier doesn’t move, only screws up his face in thought. He says, “Would it help if I _promised_ I’m not here to play tricks or harm you?”

“I won’t believe a damned word that comes off your forked tongue.”

Jaskier makes a show of sticking out his tongue and looking down at it. “Ehhh—ahh…I dunno, looks pretty un-forked to me.”

The miners fall into a mutter. One of them eventually pipes up. “Why you got that demon talking for you?”

Jaskier leans an elbow on his knee and rests his chin in his hand. With his other hand, he raises a finger pointedly. “First of all, it’s a normal raven. They have a natural ability to mimic speech, so there’s nothing paranormal about—”

“But you’re controlling its mind!”

“No. Faeries can communicate with animals. It's a companion with free will, just like your horses or hounds, and it's doing me a generous service because I lost my voice.”

“How?”

“How…did I lose my voice?”

The miner nods and Jaskier sits back and licks his lips, the story stirring up uncomfortable memories. “Um, let’s just say I found myself on the consequential end of a broken contract—one of those magical deals we fae are so infamous for.”

“One made with a human you no doubt swindled!”

Jaskier blinks when a shovel is pointed accusingly in his direction. His eyes sweep over the group. There sure is a lot of iron being put between himself and these men. It’s obviously what they have on-hand, but do they know about his weakness?

He says, “It was between faeries, actually. We…took a bet, and…You know, it’s complicated. I’d rather not delve back into it, if it’s all the same to you.”

The spade drops to the ground and the miner braces himself against it. “The fae make shady deals with _themselves?_ ”

“They’re not shady—at least, they’re not _supposed_ to be. That’s neither the default nor the ideal.” Jaskier shrugs. “Besides, is your society not also built upon similar agreements? And are there not _some_ humans who intentionally write contracts with hidden catches easily overlooked?”

The men glance at one another and talk softly among themselves again. Their body language is a little looser, their expressions noticeably less afraid and more inquisitive. The faery watches with similar interest, hardly able to believe the way they’re lending him their ears rather than automatically running or attacking. The fact that this group consists of ordinary laborers, rather than trained warriors who’ve been mentally primed to react quickly and with hostile force, likely plays a role. But part of him wants to believe that lying just beneath their fear is a genuine desire to understand the faeries—that even a seething sheriff could be pacified into hearing him, if he played his cards right.

Jaskier wistfully adds, “I miss my voice, sometimes. It was _indeed_ as beautiful as a siren’s, but it wouldn’t have caused you to go insane—except with adoration, perhaps.” The miners go silent again, seemingly hanging onto his every word. Their tools drop to either rest on the ground or against their shoulders. Jaskier grins pleasantly, showing off his little fangs. “Any other burning questions?”

“Do you steal children?”

“Is it true faeries are immortal?”

“What’s your relation to mushrooms?”

Jaskier answers readily. “Ah—no, not _technically,_ and…I don’t understand why you keep bringing fungus into this.”

“Enough!” The red-bearded man elbows his peers aside. “Don’t you see? He’s lulling you into letting down your guard, so you’ll more easily fall prey to his tricks!” He scowls up at Jaskier. “Tell us what you’re _really_ doing here.”

Jaskier’s smile wilts. He was so caught up in the satisfaction of having a civil interspecies conversation that he nearly forgot that his ultimate goal isn’t to make friends, but to convince the miners to _leave_. There’s still a nursery in danger of being felled, and the longer these people mine, the more iron they’ll have at their disposal.

Vescailla’s warnings linger in his mind. Doubt spills into the faery’s belly and congeals into a slurry of dread. Has he made a mistake by allowing them to gaze so long upon his true form and by giving them so much insight into his world?

He speaks carefully. “I’m here to ask you the same question. Seems you’ve found yourselves trespassing in my home.”

The miner looks around. “Eh? This barren, rocky place? Surely there’s somewhere nicer you can build your nest, or dig your burrow, or…whatever it is you faery creatures dwell in.”

“You misunderstand. I was referring to the forest.”

“The _whole thing?”_ the man sputters. His chest re-inflates. “ _Well_ , our maps disagree! The woods belong to King Foltest! Besides, I don’t recall seeing any signs, flags or fencing on the way here claiming otherwise.”

“I understand we haven’t been clear about where our territories begin—I admit need to communicate better. Even so, these woods have been under our protection since before the conjunction, and—”

“Oh ho. We’re in your _territory_?” The miner’s eyes become mischievous. He steps closer, and Jaskier’s heart sinks. “We walk past your piss ring or something?”

“That’s not—”

“Look, we know you’re _far_ from civilized, so I’ll give you a little lesson out of the kindness of my heart. You can’t just _say_ the forest is yours without concrete proof! You want to own some of this forest? You gotta take it up with the king like the rest of us. But good luck getting Foltest to give up his resource-rich land.” The man leans towards Jaskier with a patronizing air. “Can you even write, faery? I’m trying to imagine you filling out royal documents, but it’s as absurd a thought as a leshy trying to hold a porcelain cup!” A soft chuckle rolls over the group as the man goes on. “Hah! Can you picture it? A stupid leshen bumbling through the streets of Vizima on his way to talk business over tea?”

The laughter gains fervor. Jaskier chews on his lip. The bearded miner looks satisfied with himself. He goes on, “Aw, don’t look so pouty, faery. Right, here’s your answer: We’re just here to mine. See?” He brandishes his pickaxe. “Tell you what. You leave us alone, and we won’t bother you or tell anyone you’re here. You can flit around plowing all the animals you want and pissing on any tree you’d like. They’ll still make for equally good pelts and building material.”

 _I’m about ready to peck out some eyeballs_ , the raven mutters. Its grip on Jaskier’s shoulder tightens into something painful. Jaskier silently placates the bird and swallows the jibes. He can’t afford to do anything that could be construed as hostile. Besides, the miners are willing to live and let live. To _compromise._ That’s already a better outcome than he would have predicted.

The brash human starts miming some obscene actions, much to the continued amusement of the other men. In the middle of this display, a second, smaller group of humans announces their presence with breathless shouting.

Jaskier sits straight and watches them approach. Listening intently, he’s able to pick out the phrases, “They got Grenwald!” and “This place is _crawling_ with leshens!” among the panicked cacophony.

Two men sporting loaded crossbows tail the group. They keep slowing to point their bolts behind them, back into the depths of the forest. Jaskier looks, but sees nothing pursuing, although another distant leshen roar rattles the trees.

“What’s all this?” says the bearded miner.

The gasping men stumble to a stop and bend over their knees to catch their breath. “There’s an ancient grove…” one of them says. “Bald hawthorns…huge trees…a couple miles that way. More than enough hardwood for what we need…but, the leshens…it was like they _knew_ we were coming…never seen anything like it…a _coordinated_ attack, I tell you!”

The miner shoots Jaskier an accusatory glare. The rest of the new eyes follow. The armed men, taken by surprise, curse and aim at him. Jaskier remains deathly still. His mind races to think of something mollifying to say, but his train of thought is interrupted by the sound of one of the archers collapsing to the ground, seemingly for no reason. The man’s weapon lands beside him with a clatter. He writhes for a moment before going still.

The second armed man looks around wildly for the source of the assault. Finding nothing, he defaults to loosing a bolt in Jaskier’s direction. The faery startles to his feet and the bolt buries itself between the boulders beneath him. He feels the stones shift a little. The shooter then falls with force, similarly clutching at his chest.

Jaskier stares, stiff and bewildered. His heart climbs into his throat. The rest of the humans back cautiously away from the prince, staring at him like he’s a god of death—worse, like they’ve been _betrayed._ Jaskier once again finds himself frozen in indecision, overwhelmed with guilt and caught between whether to leap across the veil or to try repairing this delicate encounter. Within a few of his racing heartbeats, two more miners are gasping on the ground. The humans scatter. All except for one.

“I _knew_ you were up to something, you wolf-plowin’ imp!” The bearded miner chucks his pickaxe at the faery. It spins in the air and wedges itself firmly between the boulders at Jaskier’s feet. This time, the force knocks them loose. The cave opening collapses. Jaskier spreads his wings instinctively, but his foot is caught between two larger stones and he’s dragged down despite his panicked flapping. He lands ungracefully on his side. An avalanche of smaller stones and debris half-buries him. He coughs, winces and braces his arms to stand, but must immediately roll away from the swing of a shovel. The rusted blade pegs itself in the ground where his head had been.

Jaskier crawls backwards until his spine hits the rough wall of the iron-rich outcrop. _Please!_ _This isn’t—I haven’t—_ he tries to gasp out, but the raven’s flown out of earshot. He ducks to avoid another swing of the tool. The spade strikes the stone with a scraping, metallic clang before rattling to the ground. Next thing the faery knows, the miner is red-faced, gasping and writhing at his feet, just like the others. Up close, he finally notices the punctures in the man’s chest.

Invisible arrows.

Jaskier’s fear-widened eyes flick around wildly, watching voicelessly, helplessly, as the rest of the escaping humans befall the same fate at dizzying speed. He can’t tell what direction the arrows are coming from. Sometimes the force would knock a man one way, and the next man would drop as if hit from the opposite side. The assault is swift and calculated, starting with the furthest humans and working in towards the closer ones, ensuring nobody gets away.

The forest becomes silent.

Something takes hold of Jaskier’s collar and yanks him to a stand. He barely has time to process the familiar veil-crossing sensation before he finds his face inches away from the scowling sprite guard commander’s. Jaskier startles and pushes off of her. She lets go. He stumbles backwards, tripping on a stone and falling back onto his arse. The commander leans over him, one hand pointing at his face and the other gripping a bow at her side with white knuckles. She glares with both ice-blue eyes; They’re as poisonous as Vescailla’s.

“What the _fuck_ was _that?_ ” she says. “I had a feeling you w…were dumb, but this? I’m _s...still_ trying to wrap my mind around it! If your goal was _k-k-killing_ yourself, you could’ve just asked. I _gladly_ would've s...shot your ass into the next life if I learned what you w...w— _ugh!_ ” She bares her fangs and throws her hand into the air exasperatedly. Her mottled, oak-grey wings spread, accentuating the gesture. “Can’t even plowin’ talk, you’ve got me so w...worked up. Honestly... _unbelievable_.”

Jaskier blinks up at the torrent of words hitting him like a second avalanche, while his mind struggles to process everything that just happened. The raven lands beside him. He scoops the bird into his arms possessively, frowning when he starts to put the pieces together. He glares at the sprite. “Were you _spying_ on me?”

The commander briefly closes her eyes, rubs her face and takes a few calming breaths before she speaks again. “Asper doesn’t trust you,” she says slowly. “The _sprites_ don’t trust you.” The raven opens its mouth, about to echo a biting comment from Jaskier about where Asper could stick his opinions, but the commander interrupts. “Allowing humans to s...see your true form? Freely answering their questions? Refusing to fight back? _Lying_ _to Vescailla?_ W…What’s the matter with you?”

Jaskier’s anger shoves its way past his guilt and embarrassment. “What’s the matter with _me?_ You _killed_ them! All of them! Was that really unavoidable?”

The sprite rolls her eyes and hangs her bow back around her shoulder. “Considering the fact that you’d be dead had I not intervened? _Yeah,_ I think so.”

Jaskier brings himself to an aching stand. He tries to fold his wings, but many of the feathers are broken and disheveled, refusing to fall neatly into place. He sighs, growing more irritated, and hugs the raven against his chest. “Were you listening at all during that meeting? Vescailla _clearly said_ —”

“They saw your true form. They learned too much. They attacked you. They had to _die._ ”

“That’s _not_ what we agreed—”

“We didn’t _agree_ to anything. Vescailla can make all the proposals s...she wants, but s-s...ugh— _Vescailla isn’t my queen_.” She turns partially away and grimaces, then breathes deeply and starts again. “Look, Asper gave me permission to enact his original plan if I deemed it necessary. Gaia’s horns untwist if _that_ didn’t turn out to be the c-c—the case.”

“I had a perfectly good plan.”

The commander crosses her arms and leans towards him. Her long, straight hair falls back over half her face, obscuring one of her eyes. “Oh yeah? Did your plan _include_ cowering in the hopes they’d miraculously s...stop trying to _mine the brains out of your fucking skull_ long enough for you to _beg_ for their mercy? Or w—or w-was that an improvised stroke of genius you had later on? Please, enlighten me! I’m _terribly_ interested in your process!”

“Okay, the sarcasm is unnecessary,” Jaskier says. “And why is everyone so against trying something peaceful?”

“Because it’s a dangerous w...waste of time. The humans aren’t going to respond to peace. They’re not going to quit pillaging the forest just ‘cause you ask them nicely. In order to s…stop a force from coming, you need an equal or greater opposing force. _You_ have more power than all of my kind combined, and yet you _refuse_ to use it. It’s maddening! I’d k-k—I’d _kill_ for that kind of power.”

“No doubt.”

The commander jabs another finger at his face. “We guards are out here putting our lives on the line _every damned day._ Meanwhile, the only two faeries who actually possess enough raw magical s...strength to make any meaningful difference have decided our best chance at s…survival is _doing nothing_. How am I supposed to k-k—to maintain guard morale w...when _that’s_ the type of message we’re hearing from above?”

“I’m not doing nothing.” It’s half-hearted as guilt begins to settle back in.

“You’re right. I apologize. The _queen_ is the one doing nothing. _You’re_ c-c-committing _suicide._ ” She turns away from him with an annoyed growl, and then begins to comb over the area, unceremoniously yanking her arrows out of the humans. She goes on, “I don’t think you understand how _frustrating_ it’s been to watch you go from decimating a village to being s...to being _meek_.” She stops to examine what she’s collected, going over each obsidian tip to determine whether or not it’s intact enough to reuse. “I used to look up to you.”

“What?” Jaskier blinks and edges closer, unsure he heard her correctly.

“When I heard the tale about the mage and the human village—about w…what you did for Ren, it gave us hope. You weren’t like Cassia. You were full of this fierce, vengeful passion, and you let it all out w…without holding back. You’re a force of nature, and we guards had been in awe of you. Here, _finally_ , is an heir who’ll fight beside us, who’ll rise up and take Vescailla’s place as the venerated ‘guardian of guardians,' and who'll lead us to victory against the oppression of mankind. Hah...Guess we got ahead of ourselves.”

Jaskier looks down at the raven in thought. He tends to be so caught up in his own little world that he never put much consideration into how the other faeries perceive him; How his internal struggle to figure out who he is and what he stands for must look like from an outsider's perspective. How does flipping from one extreme to the other—from butcher to pacifist—make him appear? Cowardly? Unreliable? _Insane?_ There are thousands of eyes watching him at any given time, relentlessly judging him on his every action. There’s nowhere to hide from being seen.

It’s…terrifying, now that he’s thinking about it.

Nausea pushes his stomach upwards. He swallows dryly and leans against the cave wall, feeling a little feint. “That was the most traumatizing day of my life,” he says, with some effort. “I was out of control. I _never_ want to revisit that mindset. Sorry if who I am today is disappointing, but that monster isn’t me.”

“Yes it is,” the commander says lightly as she continues to scrutinize her arrows.

“ _Not anymore_.” Jaskier stands from the stone, knowing she’s right—that he’s _constantly_ fighting to smother those carnal urges. The commander has turned her attention from her work to stare at him, appearing surprised at the conviction in his tone. Jaskier says, “I promised myself I’d only use my magic for creation. For building, growing and nurturing life, rather than destroying it.”

The sprite hums, turning her attention back to her bloodied arrows. She runs her finger lightly against the edge of a head. “S...Sometimes you need to tear a thing down before you can build something new in its place.” She glances at him out of the corner of her eye before tucking the arrow into her quiver with the others.

Jaskier frowns, mulling over the words. He follows her as she heads for the bodies further out. “What’s your name?”

“Maya.” She braces her foot on a man’s chest as she yanks a particularly stubborn arrow free. “I don’t usually talk this much. But most everything about you _annoys_ me, and you got me all riled up with that shit you just pulled.”

Jaskier shrugs into himself. “Are you going to report me to the king and queen?”

“I’m duty-bound to tell Asper w...what happened here. As for Vescailla? Pff. She’s _your_ problem.” Maya smirks down at her weapon, but then looks at Jaskier and narrows her eyes. She points the arrow at his throat. “If you try anything between now and when w...we get back to the castle, I won’t hesitate to put another one of _these_ in your shoulder joint.”

Jaskier winces and hugs the raven tighter. There’s _zero_ chance she’s bluffing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Hocking (Instrumental)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VZvyvqtb45k) by [Cosmo Sheldrake](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCBFczwEgDaLeRWeyw0h7FfA)
> 
> Maya is named after _Stigmella maya_ , one of the world’s smallest moths. :)
> 
> (While we’re on the topic, Asper is named after quaking aspen trees, Ren’s name comes from the bird, Cassia is named after _Cinnamomum cassia_ , a cooking spice; and Noros’ full name, Noroasthaernis, is intended to be reminiscent of Nor’Easter storms.)


	40. Chapter 40

The prince is escorted back to the skrull castle on wild horseback, his wings too tattered to carry him. The uncomfortable sensation of being watched remained with him the entire way, as Maya’s eyes seldom left his form from where she rode close behind. Jaskier tried to strike up a conversation a few times—How long have you been in the guard? What nursery are you from? Ever fought a monster?—but received only grumbled, one or two word answers. They didn’t talk the rest of the way.

The guard at the portcullis tells him that Vescailla demands he come straight to her upon arriving—her unkindness is watching—and that she can be found in the garden.

Jaskier’s stomach knots itself up. Could the queen already know what he’s done?

Having delivered the prince home, Maya wastes no time spreading her wings and taking to the sky, stirring up dust and molted black feathers in her wake. She leaves without so much as a “good luck.” Jaskier watches her soar over the walls and lush canopy, no doubt on her way to report his misconduct to her king. He stares at the swaying treetops after her, once again wondering if his experiment had been a reckless mistake, if Maya perhaps prevented _disaster_ by taking out all witnesses to his unglamored form, and if Vescailla may reconsider Asper’s insistence that he is unfit to take her place.

The croaking of ravens pulls Jaskier out of his head. A prickle of dread rolls up his spine; He turns on his heel and marches quickly towards the courtyard. One escort is traded for another as the birds hop along the rooftops and rafters alongside him.

The queen has her back turned, busy plucking the tender new growth from camelias tucked in a corner of the garden and tossing the sprigs into a basket hung over her arm. Jaskier stops some ways away and watches her, nervously gathering his thoughts about how to approach this conversation.

Vescailla’s head tilts upwards, her gaze fixing on a raven that lands on the stone gutter directly above her. “Jaskier.” She doesn’t look back. The prince chews his lip. Goosebumps rise across his arms. “A band of jays that live near the mine have _tattled_ on you. Little that happens in this forest escapes my ears. What do you have to say for yourself?”

The entire way home, Jaskier was sure he’d melt under the heat of his mother’s judgement. But now that the moment’s arrived, something unexpected rises from his depths instead; a subtle voice _insisting_ his actions were no mistake. It shrouds him in a cloak of confidence, like an old tree’s shadow shielding him from the sun: “You were wrong.”

Vescailla turns, her lips twisted in displeasure. “Come again?”

Jaskier struts up to her. His raven puffs up its chest, mimicking his self-assurance. “You were _wrong_ about the humans. They didn’t attack. They didn’t run. They _listened_ to me. They were willing to compromise.” The prince’s feathers are preemptively bristled; He’s fully prepared to defend his choices, the bitter dew of an argument already dripping off his tongue.

“I’m well aware.”

“ _If the leshens hadn’t_ —wait, what?”

Vescailla fixes her attention on the basket, calmly brushing stray cuttings towards the center and then tamping the pile down. “I was referring to the fact that you weren’t truthful about your intentions with me during the meeting. You _lied_ to my face.”

“If I told you my real plan, you would’ve never let me leave!”

“True, I would have argued with you. But we are part of a _team_ , you and me, and Asper and Maya. We are all birds in the same nest. Our choices affect all of us, and should therefore be made _collectively_. Hm?” She pauses to cough. “I speak from a place of humility; We’ve _all_ had trouble acknowledging this as of late. What happened with the dragon is proof. If we keep going behind each other’s backs we’ll lose trust in one another. We’re all nervous, but we _must_ resist the temptation to act on our impulses.”

Jaskier has since crossed his arms, his gaze having wandered off to the side, landing on a row of blueberry bushes weighed down with not-quite-ripe fruit. He remains silent, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with her.

Vescailla’s tone falls into something more accusing. “Are you listening, Jaskier? Don’t you _dare_ leave us behind chasing after your lofty ambitions. Instead of submitting your plans to scrutiny, you took the _easy_ route and acted underhandedly. Now, we must deal with unintended consequences of that. If you’d simply frightened the miners away like your fellow leshens—like we’d _agreed on_ —this matter would have been settled already. Instead, we’ve accomplished the very thing we were trying to _avoid_.”

She tuts and waves her hand dismissively. “I have guards burying the bodies, hiding their telltale injuries from those who might come looking for them, but it’ll be of little help. Those miners won’t come home to their families regardless. They will be reported missing, and who do you think will be blamed? Ah? Have you heard the things your witcher has to say? We spoke over tea and his reports of the extent of the humans’ superstition about our kind is _startling_.”

The corner of Jaskier’s lip curls. _Geralt’s having tea time with the queen now_? _Talk about going behind each other’s backs!_ He huffs and shakes the bitter thought out of his head, shuffling his feet and refocusing his sights on Vescailla. “Maya didn’t need to _kill_ them. That wasn’t my fault. I only needed more time. I could’ve calmed them down if I’d been given the chance to—”

“ _No,_ Jaskier!” The sharpness of her voice makes him jump. Vescailla’s wings are half-spread and a finger points at his chest. “Your optimism poorly disguises your _naivety_. Asper’s paranoia can be excessive, but it was _not_ out of place in this case—” She pauses and screws up her face “—Although _he_ didn’t tell me he’d sent his commander after you in secret, either!” She coughs more. A pair of sprigs fall out of the basket. She shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “Both of you, downright deceitful! This is _exactly_ what I’m talking about. And _you._ I know you’re _more_ than capable of defending yourself, yet you bafflingly refuse to do so. If not for Maya, you would have been _beheaded_.”

“Defending myself wasn’t an option,” Jaskier says firmly.

“And why, for Gaia’s sake, not?”

“Think about it. Biting back out of self-defense can just as easily be _twisted_ into a report of a ‘vicious attack’ by a faery as outright assaulting them.”

Vescailla’s brow furrows. She searches his face for a moment, considering. “Don’t tell me you think it better to remain passive and _allow_ them to harm you.”

“Of course not! I tried to flee. I got trapped.”

“Mmhmm. Things didn’t go as planned. You didn’t account for _that_ possibility, did you?” The queen readjusts the basket and pats the cuttings back down. “Your goals are noble. But what you’re doing is far too much of a gamble than I’m comfortable with. I’ve told you this, and I will continue to remind you of it until the day I die.”

Jaskier unfurls and steps closer. He points at the ground, adamant. “Vescailla, we _have_ to take risks sometimes. If we keep doing what we’ve always done, then nothing will change! Waiting around out of fear of stirring the pot is _not_ the answer—and neither is languishing all our time away in endlessly circular team meetings where no one’s willing to _compromise_. Don’t you get it? We’re running out of time! We need to act _now_. We’ve tried killing them. We’ve tried scaring them away. It’s time to do something we’ve never done before. We need to stop playing the Mysterious Unknown and _communicate_ with them.”

Vescailla scoffs and stalks back over to the camelias. She’s silent at first. Jaskier frowns, watching her pluck tender shoots with her claw-like nails and toss them into the pile with less care than before. She says, her voice subdued, “Amusing, you lecturing _me_ about risk-taking while _you_ continue to exist in fear of your own power.”

Jaskier blinks, the quip catching him by surprise. “That’s…not true.”

“You opened the magical floodgates,” Vescailla continues, self-assured in a way that maddens him. “You saw your potential in action, and rather than working to master it, you shrunk back in horror and vowed never to use it again. Such a _waste_.”

Maya’s words echo in his mind, lumping with the queen’s into something bigger. He bristles, insulted by everyone’s _apparent_ resignment to regard him with little but disappointment. Is he _wrong_ to want to try something different? To be given a plowing chance to prove his ideas have substance?

_Nobody’s taking me seriously. Nobody ever seems to ever agree with me, listen to me, understand me…_

“That’s _not true_.” A cool breeze rakes through his hair. Clouds lazily float across the sun.

“Are you sure? Because I have neither seen nor heard of you using your magic _once_ since the day Ren died—the exception being to _undo_ a spell you already cast on your witcher.” She turns to face him, seemingly unbothered by the change in weather. “All this time your fear has been _misdirected_. You demonized your magic, but magic is not inherently dark.”

A stiff wind rolls over the parapets and spills down the cleaved stones, bending back the garden’s plants like oppressive hands.

The queen goes on. “You opened yourself up too wide too soon, you felt the energy of the continent rush into you like an avalanche, and it caught you off guard. You felt invaded and overwhelmed, like you were possessed—like you became someone else entirely. But that is not the case! Magic is a _neutral_ energy until it runs up against a consciousness, which inserts its Will upon it. Only with intent is it shaped and given purpose. It is the same as a painter approaching a blank canvas. What happened in the village was a result of your passion, impulsivity and lack of experience. Do you understand?”

The queen is answered with a clap of thunder that rolls over the courtyard and rattles their ribs. Electricity hums in the air and in Jaskier’s eyes. Unruffled, Vescailla stares back at him daringly. Her own irises ignite with dusk. “That’s right... _show_ me,” she calls over the sound of rustling leaves. The sky darkens. The wind picks up and rushes into the yard from opposite sides, clashing in the middle. “Prove you’re not afraid!”

Jaskier pushes harder. His raven, unable to keep its grip on his shoulder, takes flight and heads for shelter. The air wrestles with itself like bull elk in battle, becoming more fervent as each side dominates the other in step. The heavy clouds above begin to rotate slowly, then become drawn downwards like spun wool, fed from below, tangling together and reaching for the ground between the faeries. Jaskier leans forward, bracing himself against the hiccupping gusts, but struggles to maintain his balance. He stumbles.

Vescailla remains firmly in place, stable and unyielding like the mountain they stand upon. Her dark hair billows like a curtain. She knows her own strength. Adept. Precise. Masterful. Her magic dances with his like it’s a _game._

Her arrogance makes Jaskier _furious._ His frame begins to buzz with the feeling, which then settles into cold, bitter jealousy. The airstream roars, echoing him. It’s satisfying—yes, see, _he_ can be strong, too—until he senses himself starting to lose control.

He staggers again, cursing and folding in his wings tightly. Fear starts shoving the gratification aside, eating it like vinegar to limestone, and the result is suffocating. He thrusts his shaking hands forward, fighting to shape the disobedient gale as it begins to tease the plants from the earth. He grimaces, curling his fingers in like claws, his body swaying. 

Vescailla pulls back at once, without warning, leaving him _alone_ with his magic. Breaths going ragged, Jaskier struggles to wrap his consciousness around the cyclone, like a fisherman casting a net over a panicked school, clumsily gathering it and holding it there as it continues to crash into his slight form like waves against a cliffside. It bucks in his grasp, trying to escape. He stumbles backwards into the row of blueberry bushes.

What now?

Jaskier closes his eyes and forces his breathing to slow and deepen. His mind returns to the landscape the raven had transported him to. His twin is there, grinning wickedly. Bloody. Unhinged.

“ _Explode_ ,” it tells him. “ _Show her she was wrong to doubt you. Destroy these walls. Shred her precious plants. Make her bleed_...”

Jaskier leans into the orders, his grip on the wind loosening slightly. But the air takes the opening and whips against him, jolting him out of the void of his mind. _No..._ He yanks his attention away from the hypnotizing voice, clinging instead to the grounding sensation of the shrubs pressing against the back of his legs.

_Berries. Darkness. Black. Black…berries…_

His eyes open.

With a surge of willpower, Jaskier compresses the squirming air into a sphere, simultaneously pushing it inwards and down. It grows smaller and smaller, further and further condensing. He forces his resolve upon it, filling it with a _new_ intention before recasting it, in all its whipping fury, into a tiny seed. He holds the seed against the earth from a distance, where it vibrates like a rattlesnake’s tail until the shell finally cracks under the pressure. A tiny root and shoot emerge.

Vescailla steps cautiously towards it, appearing perplexed. The seed ruptures; She startles and stumbles away, watching wide-eyed as it radiates outwards into a fully-formed shrub that’s taller than herself. Buds appear at the ends of each branch and swell until they erupt into pale purple panicles.

A calm settles over the garden. The soft, sweet scent of the flowers drifts over everything. Jaskier slumps forward, his anger burnt up, letting his tension go in a heaving sigh. While he fights to catch his breath, he blinks away black spots from his vison. Sweat drips down his temples. His hands are still shaking.

The raven returns to his shoulder. _You remembered,_ it says, giving his ear a playful nip.

“Jaskier…” He glances up, confused by the queen’s wistful tone. She’s staring at him like he’s sprouted a second pair of wings. “ _How_ did you do that? There aren’t any lilacs near here. Not a single seed.”

“Ah…is _that_ what makes this smell?” The bird mimics his breathlessness. He straightens and wipes his brow. “Noticed it on ladies’ perfumes back in my bard days. I always wondered—”

“ _Jaskier.”_

“Oh, I…pulled it into existence. Um…” He pauses, trying to think of the word. “ _Manifested_ it. Is that—is that weird?”

“It’s _unprecedented_.” Vescailla steps close and bends forward, gently taking hold of his wrists and pulling them towards her face. She uncurls his fingers and squints down at his palms, and then looks at him from beneath her furrowed brow. “That wasn’t some sort of illusion?”

“No.” He yanks himself out of her grasp and cocks an eyebrow at her. The queen straightens and twists her lips, still befuddled. Jaskier says, “I remembered the scent—always found it soothing—and used that as a sort of anchor to bring the rest of it here.”

Vescailla slowly shakes her head. “You are truly something _strange_.”

“Says the two-thousand-year-old faery queen.”

“That wasn’t meant as an _insult_ , Buttercup.” She continues to observe him, tilting her head to the side and narrowing her eyes. “I understand now. You _have_ been practicing with your magic, but on your own terms. You took the initiative to explore yourself and managed to reach further with your innate abilities than I could’ve ever taught you by myself. Well done.”

“I had some help.” Jaskier gestures to his raven.

Vescailla’s eyebrows arch. “ _Oh?_ Teaching my heir when I’m not looking, Ethwyn? Should’ve known you wouldn’t be able to keep your talons out of it.”

The bird turns up its beak. Jaskier frowns thoughtfully. “Why does that name sound so familiar?”

Vescailla looks amused. She clears her throat and pats her chest, then she says, “Tell me, since learning how to see your own heartstrings, have you ever tried to sense someone else’s? Why don’t you give it a try?”

Looking with his mind’s eye, the first thing Jaskier notices is the string connecting himself and Vescailla. That’s to be expected. But then he sees something glisten in his periphery: a string coming from the raven. He follows it with his gaze to Vescailla, his confusion deepening.

“You claimed a bird?”

“Dear heart, the bird claimed _me._ Before she was a bird. Here is part two of your lesson on the nature of heartstrings: The bonds stick to the soul and persist across lifetimes.” It takes a moment for the information sink in for Jaskier. Vescailla reads his increasingly revelatory expression and announces, indicating the bird, “ _This_ one has lived many more lifetimes since the one where she bore the aforementioned name. But she nearly always comes back as a raven, returning to sit as an advisor on my court. They’re our ancestors, Jaskier; All of them. Ethwyn is wise—in touch with her soul’s age and the many lessons learned on an instinctual level—even if she doesn’t remember the details of her faery life. She must have gravitated to you, sensing you needed her more than I did.”

The queen steps close and reaches up to cradle Jaskier’s cheek with her ice-cold hand; It snaps him out of his existential daze. She says, “Now, you have ideas which require great risk, but from what you’ve just shown me, your creative gifts might just be the key to ensuring those ideas succeed.” She pauses, searching his eyes, before taking a deep breath and adding, “I’ll yield a bit. Alright? We can try with the humans again sometime later. But you must _promise_ to be honest with your intentions. _No more lies_.” Jaskier nods gently, and her hand leaves him. He’s still basking in the glow of the compliment—of feeling _heard—_ when the queen tuts and adds, “Your wings look like a pair of ragged old cloaks. You need to see the royal imper straight away.”

“I’ll do it.”

Jaskier and Vescailla turn towards the voice. Maya is leaning against the stone arch marking the garden’s entryway with her arms crossed, looking sullen as ever.

The queen blinks. “How long have _you_ been there?”

“A little w...while. I could see the tornado forming all the way from Asper’s balcony.” She nods curtly towards the prince. “Came back to make s…sure this one didn’t get himself into trouble again.”

“ _Well I didn’t_ ,” Jaskier hisses. “Even if I did, I can take care of myself, thanks.”

Vescailla says, “How in the _world_ did you escape my notice? And in my own castle, nonetheless?”

“She’s stealthy,” Jaskier bites. “Like a demonic little owl.”

“They’re _all_ like owls,” the queen drawls. She retrieves her basket, now overturned and emptied on the ground nearby, and then straightens and cocks an eyebrow at the sprite. “Maya, you’re an imper?” The commander nods. “Huh…Very well. Off with you two. I have to restart my tea harvest.” She waves them away.

Jaskier begins to trudge toward the sprite, but not without glancing back. He catches the queen stopped by the lilac bush, staring up at it as if still mystified.

Maya tugs on his sleeve. “Let’s _go_ , crowbreath.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tornadoland](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QAEzS4EvRTY) by [Regina Spektor](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCXLFs5gTV3rjGPFkgxFoDxQ)
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me so far. If you're enjoying the story, consider letting me know! Your comments help keep me motivated. :)


	41. Chapter 41

Maya leads Jaskier somewhere he, as a royal, rarely goes: into town.

Faery settlements are not unlike those of humans, with dirt or cobble roads oft crowded with merchants, customers and animals, but their architecture more closely resembles that of the elves in grandness and complexity. The mostly-stone structures work with the land, leaving hills, building around established trees and using natural rock faces as walls or carved staircases. Thus, the towns are masked from above by the woodland canopy during the green half of the year. Most villages are home either to sprites or to skrulls. There is only one city, which the kingdoms’ border cuts through, where the two species intermingle: Serenghal. According to historians, the ancient settlement was established well before the royal borders were.

Jaskier’s horse slows behind Maya’s as they're caught behind a line to get in. Merchants driving wagons stuffed with barrels, sacks or bundled hay jam up most of the path. The prince stares up in wonder at the imposing, intricately carved wooden doors that act as Serenghal’s south gate. A boldly-lettered sign on the wall reads: _Flight Restricted Area_.

“You live _here?_ ” he asks.

“Technically.” Maya keeps her eyes forward. Her horse prances impatiently under her. “But my new position requires I s…spend nearly all of my time at the castle. I used to earn a living between guard shifts by fixing up wings. I’ve been missing it…that’s w...why I offered to do yours.”

“What convinced you to go into imping, of all things? You seem more like, mmm...like the arrow-fletching type.”

Maya doesn’t answer right away, because the wagon in front of them announces its progression into town with a loud squeal, the wheels complaining under the weight of their cargo. The prince and commander shuffle their mounts up to the gatekeeper; They’re recognized instantly and allowed through. Maya urges her horse into a trot; Jaskier follows.

The crowds part for them, giving them unnecessarily wide berth. Jaskier eyes the villagers—sprites, mostly—who pause their business to stare at _him,_ in particular, with a noticeably wary air. A teacher pauses at a corner and uses her wings to herd a group of middling-age faelings away from the street, like a swan with her signets. Some of the faelings duck under the feathers to stare at the potent pair with nothing short of admiration. Jaskier gives them a soft smile and a little wave.

Maya’s voice pulls his attention back to the front. “I s...suppose there is a certain... _satisfaction_ gained from taking s...something worn and making it new.”

She leads him around corners, slipping into narrow alleys, under archways and through hidden gardens, weaving them deep into the heart of town. An unremarkable two-story stone building, nestled between taller neighbors, marks the end of their journey. Maya dismounts and waves Jaskier over. He's slow to follow, distracted by the pair of painted wooden signs that hang above the door and swing gently in the wind. The one on top depicts a vivid green luna moth over a black circle and the words: _New Moon Imping._ The second sign hangs off the bottom of first and reads, in far less ornamental script: _Serenghal Lepidopterarium._

Maya turns the knob and nudges the stubborn door open with her shoulder. It swings inwards with a rusty groan and hits a little bell hanging above it.

“Welcome to—oh! _Maya_ , what a nice surprise!” a gentle, silvery voice drifts from within.

Jaskier curiously peeks over the commander’s shoulder. Another sprite springs up from a wooden stool. She appears relatively young—if she was human, he’d guess she's no older than twenty-five. Her wings are dark brown and speckled with white. She pushes round glasses up her freckled nose and blinks at them. “And who’s this with you? A patient?” She leans forward and squints, then promptly straightens, her cheeks flushing. She nervously sweeps stray bangs behind her ears. The rest of her curly brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail, but still sticks out wildly in places. “You’ve brought the _prince?_ Gosh, okay, a little heads up would’ve been nice...” She begins furiously straightening jars and piling papers. “Your Royal Highness, I swear things here aren’t normally so, um, _disorderly._ Pox…I-I just need a minute or two…”

“ _Relax_ ,” Maya drawls, then turns towards Jaskier. “This is W…Whitney, my apprent...uh, colleague. A lepidopterist and _master_ imper.”

Whitney stops cleaning and stares wide-eyed. “ _What?_ ”

Maya smirks and throws a thumb in her direction, still speaking to Jaskier. “S...She basically runs the place now. I have every confidence in simply handing you over to her, _but_ , for old time’s s…sake…” She takes him by the sleeve, drags him a few feet to the side and shoves him towards a padded reclining chair.

Jaskier falls heavily into it and frowns up at her, not appreciating being tossed around like a sack of grain. “Are you trying to break _more_ of my feathers?”

Maya doesn’t answer, already heading for the opposite wall. Whitney winces and quickly shuffles over to the prince, her shoulders hunched and her hands neatly folded at her front. “You’ll have to forgive my associate. She can be, um…”

“A terror. A menace. A _curse_ sent to me from the gods as revenge for all my wrongdoings,” Jaskier says flatly.

Maya, busy rifling through a closet, pauses and bends around the door to show him a single finger. Jaskier scoffs and leans forward in the seat, but before he can speak, Whitney side-steps in front of him, blocking her from his line of sight. She titters nervously and dips into a little bow. “I never expected our little impery to be graced by royalty. It’s an _honor_ to make your acquaintance, sir.”

“Pleasure’s mine,” mumbles the raven, while Jaskier narrows his eyes at Maya, who’s not paying him attention. He begrudgingly falls back against the chair and looks around the room. The first thing to catch his eye is a poster directly across from him which details fae wing anatomy. Each flight feather is numbered. Arrows indicate every muscle, bone and digit, and are accompanied by descriptive paragraphs. It looks…overly complicated.

His eyes keep wandering, rolling over the array of different sized glass jars covering the tables and lining the shelves. It seems nearly every available nook of the room is occupied. Each container is filled with feathers meticulously organized by color and size. Much of the inventory consists of bird sheds, ranging from the humble sparrow to the mighty eagle. He suspects the drawers are filled with more of the same. The largest feathers in the collection, bundled in sets with labels, are clearly from fae. Propped up in tall baskets and vases, the collection takes up a majority of the floor space, leaving just enough room to be maneuvered past.

The wall behind him is decorated with framed moth and butterfly specimens, taxonomically sorted and labelled. They’re displayed proudly above a desk well-lit by sun spilling in from a window and saddled with a heavy-looking magnifying glass, a mountain of disheveled papers and journals, and numerous stacked jars containing a rainbow of insect wings.

“I hope this isn’t too forward,” Whitney’s voice draws his attention back to her. The sprite's sea-green eyes flip briefly between the raven’s and his own. “But I’m curious, are the rumors true? You and your familiar are melded at the mind? Subjects to one another’s unyielding stream of consciousness?”

“Ah...It's not quite that extreme. If that was the case, I think we’d both drive each other insane.”

Whitney hums and rubs her chin. “Talking to you feels just like talking with anyone. As in, there’s no perceivable conversational delay, even though the words _must_ travel between bodies… _Fascinating_. Does the bird process the _meaning_ of the words before it relays them, or is it more like a reflex?”

“I didn’t bring him here to be _studied_ , Whit,” Maya says, returning to their side. She’s carrying a thin wooden rod covered with incremental black lines. Whitney sighs and steps out of the way as Maya pulls up a chair and says to Jaskier, “Open your left w…wing for me.”

Jaskier obeys. Whitney readies a quill and a cumbersome-looking tome. She scribbles quickly as Maya begins to comb over the ragged limb, holding the measuring rod up to each broken flight feather and calling out, “P-1: forty-three and a half. P-3: forty-s…six…S-2: thirty-one and three quarters…quit squirming.” Maya whaps Jaskier over the head with the flexible pole.

“Ow— _sorry_.”

Whitney peeks over the pages to wince meaningfully at him.

Maya repeats the process with the other wing while Jaskier holds himself as stiff as a frightened possum. Then, she stands, lazily laying the tool over her shoulder. “Alright, I’m going to find the donor feathers that most closely match your own. In the meantime, Whit, how about you s…show him your greenhouse?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, getting to work straight away, burying herself in a forest of dark feathers nearly as tall as she is, checking labels and pushing bundles aside.

Jaskier is lead towards a door at the back of the building. As he navigates the maze of inventory, he struggles not to bump into the pottery, dreading the notion of what would happen should he break something.

“Ugh, these need to be tossed. Fucking c-c-carpet beetles…” he hears Maya mutter as they pass.

The door opens into a sunny garden. Jaskier squints and shields his eyes with a hand. He keeps his gaze lowered as his vision adjusts, following Whitney’s boots down a cobble path flanked on either side by waist-high flushes of purple echinacea and golden rudbeckia. Once he’s able to stand looking back up at his escort’s face, he asks, “Where do you get all those feathers?”

“Some are donated molts, but…” Whitney hesitates, pushing her glasses up. “The most useful donations, the ones we greatly prefer, are those gathered from corpses. Morbid, yes. But the feathers are younger, and so less likely to be worn. Molted feathers have usually run their course, but they’ll work in a pinch, so long as the veins still zip neatly.”

“Who gathers them?”

“Maya. Well, a special sect of skrull guards will respond to any reports of deaths and come to collect bodies. They're then delivered to us by wagon late at night—so not to offend the locals—and _then_ Maya would harvest the feathers...I mostly did the paperwork.” Whitney clears her throat and hikes up her shoulders. “I don’t do well with corpses. Strong gag reflex. Sensitive stomach. But ever since Maya got promoted...well, I’ve had to do _everything_.”

“Maybe you could find an apprentice of your own? One who’s less squeamish?”

“You’re right,” Whitney sighs. “Maya won’t get any less busy with her new duties. Seeing how I’m _apparently_ a master now, I think that would be the next logical move.” She slows as they approach an enormous glasshouse. Jaskier blinks up at the ornate building, the likes of which he’s only seen in paintings of Toussaint’s dreamy landscapes. His view of the inside is warped thanks to the aged glass, but it’s bursting with color and…does he see movement?

“Hey, there’s…” he begins, squinting into a distorted pane. His breath catches when Whitney opens the door and the blurry, floating shapes sharpen into butterflies with flamboyant patterns. Brilliant oranges and reds, blues, yellows and greens assault his vision from every side, momentarily paralyzing him. Plants, only a few of which he recognizes, tower above him and creep onto the winding stone pathways.

“Welcome to the city’s lepidopterarium,” Whitney cheerfully says, carefully closing the door behind them and enveloping them in the humidity. “We study and breed moths and butterflies here. It’s part of a larger program which ensures our orchards and fields get adequately pollinated. There’s an apiary behind the house as well. And the gardens here and around the town are specifically designed to support pollinators.”

“I had no idea…”

“You’re a skrull, so it makes sense,” she says lightly. Jaskier tears his eyes away from a striped black and yellow butterfly to look at the scientist. Her cheeks flush again. “Oh, Your Highness, don’t take that the wrong way. I apologize. It’s easy to forget you haven’t grown up here…It’s just, your species’ ecological work centers around the fall and winter seasons, whereas the sprites work more with spring and summer—that’s when a majority of flowering and pollination takes place.”

“Why is labor split like that? I’ve been here for nearly a decade, and I _still_ don’t understand it.”

“That’s…a fair question.” She hesitates. “The simple, albeit unsatisfactory, answer is that it’s just how it’s always been. Many of our eldest fae will recite how our species evolved to fill different ecological niches, and insist we should obey the roles Gaia chose for us. As someone who studies ecology, I can tell you our distant ancestors _used_ to be more specialized. But, that’s no longer the case. What we do now is, frankly, tradition. Save for societal constraints, there’s really nothing keeping a sprite from doing skrull work and vice versa. We all have nearly identical natural abilities—You and the queen are the exceptions, of course. Asper, too, to a lesser degree.”

A purple butterfly lands on Jaskier’s chest. He watches its proboscis poke curiously at the burgundy fabric of his tunic before flying off. Whitney identifies it as an emperor. She then plucks a ripe orange from a nearby tree, slices it with a pocket knife, plops one half into his hand and tells him to hold it there.

Jaskier confusedly obeys. As he waits for something to happen, he asks, “What’s Asper’s deal, anyway? How is _he_ different from other sprites? I understand how skrull monarchs work; Needing to find a womb of flesh and blood or whatever, to pass on magic ability. But Asper doesn’t have to do that—his magical adeptness is the same as any other faery's. So, what exactly makes a sprite monarch?”

Whitney blinks at him. "You sure are bursting with questions."

"You seem to know what you're talking about, when it comes to biology."

The sprite's cheeks go pink. She ducks away to set the second half of the fruit on a jelly-smeared plate sitting on top of a stump. "Well, to put it simply, the answer comes down to hormones. If you picture the sprites as caterpillars, then it’s as if only one is ever prompted to make the full transformation into butterfly. When a monarch is lost, the rest of the sprites, as a collective, are able to _sense_ this, even if we’re not informed of it. This could be due to a sudden lack of a specific pheromone in the air…We’re not entirely sure because, whatever it is, it isn’t something we consciously perceive…” she trails off, brow furrowing in thought, before she shakes her head. “Anyway, in response to this gap, a new monarch will spontaneously develop within the colony. In other words, one of us just, seemingly out of nowhere, starts synthesizing reproductive hormones and the proteins used to build spores.”

“Weird.” Jaskier’s lip curls, the strangeness of the thought overpowering his delight when another purple emperor lands on his orange slice to delicately sip the juices.

“Very. Since the mechanisms behind this process remain enigmatic, there’s a lot of lore surrounding it. Every time we’ve lost a king or queen, no one was able to accurately predict who ended up taking their place. Depending on the time of year in which the death happens, figuring it out can be a bit of a waiting game, since spores are only produced in the spring. It is said, ‘ _Whosoever cares most deeply for their fellows, and who is brave and noble and true, may awake one April’s day to find dust beneath their wings.’_ It’s a nice sentiment, but…the truth is, there’s no outstanding quality we’ve been able to identify which makes one faery more likely than another to make the transition to monarch.”

As Whitney speaks, more butterflies begin to flock around Jaskier, landing on his outstretched hand and brushing past his hair; Dainty grays, stunning oranges and stripey blues. Ethwyn snaps hungrily at a reddish one that flies too close to her. Jaskier scolds her inwardly and gives her beak a little shake. Whitney must’ve also noticed, because she offers the bird a slice of apple, which Ethwyn gladly pins underfoot and pecks away at.

“How did you and Maya end up sharing a space?” Jaskier asks. “Your expertise seem to have nothing to do with each other.”

“The two intersect, believe it or not. Maya would patch the ragged wings of longer-lived butterflies for me. That aside, while my work is important, it’s still underappreciated and underpaid.” She shrugs. “Turns out imping is far more lucrative. I needed help, and so did she. So, when I found myself frequently needing Maya’s services, and she became overrun with clients over time, she ended up packing up shop and moving in with me for conveniency’s sake. We remodeled the lab to also serve as an impery and we acted as assistants to one another. Maya’s quite fond of the moths.” Whitney smiles as she passes the raven another slice. “The arrangement worked well for years, until the former commander was killed, and—”

“Ren.”

“Right…and Maya didn’t know she was Asper’s next pick for commander—The news took us _both_ by surprise. She had to choose between this quiet, boring little nook of the city, or the excitement of castle life and full-time guard duty. She acted like it was a hard decision, but I always knew where her heart was. She worked her whole life to get recognition in the guard. It paid off…I’m happy for her.”

“Are you gonna keep doing it? The imping?”

“Shame to let something I’ve spent so long learning go to waste. I’ve gotten quite good at it, you know, and it helps pay for my research. I just need a…a new partner…that’s all.” She frowns, looking distantly at the plate of fruit offerings for a moment. Then, she takes a deep breath and stiffly turns on her heel. “We should head back.”

Maya clips Jaskier’s damaged feathers close to their bases, leaving behind their hollow keratin sheaths. She then uses a tool with a little metal hook to fish out the withered blood vessels inside. Jaskier quickly looks the other away, the sight making him nauseous, despite not feeling a thing. He dips his head back and throws an arm over his eyes. In need of a distraction, he tries asking, “So, you’ve been in the guard a while. I assume you knew Ren?”

Maya makes a sound that’s almost a laugh. “Better than most. She and I go w…way back.”

He peeks over his arm. “Really? She never talked about you...um, no offense.”

Maya sweeps her hair behind her ears, dips low and closes one eye as she peers down the shaft of the last clipped feather. The tip of her tongue pokes out of the side of her mouth as she maneuvers the tool. “Mmhmm...There’s a reason for that."

She doesn’t elaborate. Instead, she finishes with the remains of the old feather, cleans the hook with a rag and sets it aside before retrieving a short, thin wooden dowel from a pile on the desk beside them. She props her feet on the table and leans languidly back in her chair so that the front legs hover precariously off the floor, and then begins to whittle away at the end of the wood with a flint knife.

“So…what’s the reason, if you don’t mind me asking?” Jaskier nervously eyes the shavings as they’re flicked off, afraid he’ll get another rap on the head for prodding her, but his curiosity is overwhelming. 

Maya stops. Her eyes rise to meet with his and narrow icily. But Jaskier can see the gears turning in her head, like she’s debating. Eventually, she returns her attention to the dowel. “We had a s…series of disagreements.” 

“About?” he risks asking.

Maya frowns up at him, but then sighs. “Where should I begin?” The legs knock back to the floor as she reaches for a donor feather, then attempts to fit the rod into the clipped sheath. It doesn’t go in. She goes back to whittling. “It'd be easy to call us friendly rivals—that's how I like to look at it now, but the truth is, Ren never saw it that way. She bested me in everything that mattered. I felt like I was always playing c-c-catch-up, and I didn't want to be left behind. Yet we were, first and foremost, friends...best friends. I looked up to her and she looked out for me..."

A pause. Maya thoughtfully pokes at the end of the dowel with her finger. More gears turn behind her eyes. "I was bullied as a kid, and was also s...shy. I rarely spoke to anyone. One day, Ren came along, and...she was always so bold and brash and fiery. None of our peers messed with her. I don't know what s...she saw in me, but she glued herself to my side. We quickly became inseparable." The dowel and feather meet again unsuccessfully. "Ren, unsurprisingly, grew up to be s...someone who knew her worth and made herself heard. As we got older and entered the guard, we trained together, joked and gossiped, traded techniques and tactical s...strategies. We were a team. Both of us readily climbed the ranks until one day, Ren got promoted to c-c—to commander. The news came as no surprise to either of us. She was already considered an archery prodigy. Could’ve pegged a s…swallow through its heart mid-flight. I was excited for her. But she suddenly stopped having time for me." She pauses again. Her brow furrows. "Weeks, then months, would go by. I'd keep reminding myself; She’s my best friend, I should be supportive, it’s...it's not her fault how busy she is…”

Maya trails off as she shifts her focus back to attempting to join the wood with the feather again. The dowel fits snugly this time. She brushes some glue onto both ends of the wood, secures the donor feather onto it, and slides the other end into the corresponding sheath in Jaskier’s wing. “Don’t move ‘till it’s dry,” she mutters as she makes some minor adjustments to the feather’s angle. Jaskier stares at the marriage of parts, mildly impressed. The donor feather is nearly indistinguishable from the original. Maya’s fingers are deft, and her hands are steady, quick and confident. She could probably do this with her eyes closed.

“What happened next?”

“ _Cassia_ happened.” Maya rolls her eyes as she grabs a new dowel and leans far back in the seat again. Shavings start to fly. “She poisoned Ren’s mind with her pacifistic lamentations. Before w…we knew it, our militant leader was in _love_.”

Jaskier winces when a flake bounces off his cheek. “And this was…bad?”

The chair legs hit the floor. “It was the w…worst thing that’s ever happened to the guard! Ren w…went _insane._ Asper k-k-kept yielding to her ridiculous s…suggestions, too.” Another dramatic eye roll. “She was his _favorite_ progeny. I bet you she w…was top candidate to be his heir.”

“Are you sure?” Jaskier drawls. “That’s not how Whitney says it works.”

“ _Whatever_. He let her get away w…with so much _bullshit_. Suddenly, our bows were ‘too cruel,’ and we all had to learn a whole new plowin’ s…style of fighting to accommodate for it.”

“That sounds inconvenient.”

“Hah! Understatement of the century.” Maya wags the spear-ended wood in his face. “You're a bard, right? C-C-Can you imagine training your whole life to master your lute, only to be forced to leave it behind for s...something _entirely unrelated_ , all on someone's idealistic _whim?_ ” She huffs and sits heavily back, shoving the dowel into another feather. The chair creaks as it tips. “Ren w…worked us like horses. The drills were as frustrating as they were _relentless_ —if our form wasn’t up to snuff, we’d be forced to stay late and practice.

“After one particularly exhausting day, I’d plowin’ _had it_. She never had time for me, so I _inserted myself_ into her busy schedule by blocking her exit out of the arena. I tried to explain how limiting ourselves to a close-range, less deadly weapon made no sense. W…What were we supposed to do against crossbows, for example? But she was s…so wrapped up in making _Cassia_ happy, none of my logic s…stuck. I was _pissed_. I told her she w…wasn’t thinking straight and that the skrull heir’s probably got her under some sort of plowin’ spell. Ren got insulted and blew me off. She was _convinced_ that defense-only actions and scare tactics w…were the answer to everything.”

“But they weren’t?” Jaskier offers.

“Of c-c—of course not!” she says. “That strategy only opened us up to being taken advantage of. Guess w…what happened? The humans moved further inland and made themselves at home. We sprites, forced to lug these _unwieldly_ gods-forsaken staffs around, w…were far more hesitant to act, because entering a skirmish meant putting ourselves in close proximity with iron blades. Meanwhile, _Vescailla_ ramped up her offense, effectively _c-c-cancelling out_ any lives our new, less aggressive tactics might have otherwise spared. It was all so plowin’ _pointless!_

“There was only _one_ time Ren took up a bow again, and that was to avenge Cassia. We were stunned hearing about it; Damned crazy sprite went after a witcher by herself? And _won?_ Tch..." Maya shakes her head. "The guard celebrated, not only because there was one less of those fae-killers in the world, but also because we took it as a sign our leader might return to the old ways. Instead, something in her _broke_ that day. She didn’t celebrate with us. She locked herself in her chambers for days.

“When she finally emerged, I asked her how s...she was feeling, only to realize she’d become an even more adamant advocate of Cassia’s. That was the last time we ever spoke to each other. W...We all thought she was crazy. But, because Asper backed her up—he was trying _way too hard_ to emulate his popular predecessor—we had no choice but to obey. Thankfully, by the time I took Ren’s place, Asper had come to realize how s...stupid he was being and gave up trying to act like someone he isn’t. He blessed my request to use our staffs as kindling and bring back our bows.”

“It sounds like Ren was a bit of a black sheep among the sprites.”

“Plowin’ piece of work…” Maya mutters, lip curling. "She always did her own thing, ever since we were little. Never cared a lick about what anybody thought of her."

“When I first arrived in the fae realm, she made your kind out to be far more peace-loving compared to skrulls. But, over time I’ve noticed that isn’t the case at all.”

“No. Nimair, the previous monarch, was known for promoting a gentle lifestyle and was beloved among both s...sprites and skrulls. Ren kept quoting him after Cassia changed her. But Nimair is _long_ dead—died before we were even born—and times have changed! It’s far easier to advocate for peace w...when you don’t have iron-touting humans breathing down your neck.” Maya rolls her eyes again. “Ren kept projecting her ideals onto Asper and the rest of us…She even wriggled her way into _your_ head.”

“Huh?”

“That’s the reason you’re so hesitant to fight, isn’t it? I know you two were close. You didn’t w...want to disappoint her, did you?"

"I mean, there were other reasons, too."

"When you showed up, I hoped maybe you’d bring Ren back to reason. But I later found out she was showing you how to s...staff-fight. Oh my gods, I wanted to _die_.”

Jaskier shrugs loosely. “Well, I asked her to teach me.”

“I said _don’t move._ ” Maya tuts and re-adjusts one of the feathers on his wing. “Did you ever think about why you’d ask that in the first place?” She pauses her work and looks him in the eye. “It’s because you, the leshen prince who practically bleeds magic, have been _brainwashed_ into feeling guilty about your power. So, you went looking for alternatives. Face it, Your Highness. Ren lost Cassia, and so s...she built a new Cassia in _you_. She took advantage of your cluelessness and used you to further her own agenda.”

Jaskier clears his throat, fighting off the sinking feeling her words stir in his chest. He stares at the ceiling for a while, thinking back on all his conversations with Ren, both pre and post-mortem. “You’re right...she did some things that were admittedly manipulative. I’m not sure how intentional it was, though…To be fair, she did apologize for it.”

“At least she’s owning up to _s…something,_ ” Maya mutters, securing another feather to his wing.

Silence falls over the room. The sprite returns to whittling. Jaskier keeps his eyes on the ceiling, listening to the sound of stone against wood. Eventually, he says softly, “Sorry you two grew apart...I know how hard it is to lose your best friend."

“Grew apart…that's generous of you,” Maya scoffs. “She left me behind and never looked back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Impery/Lepidopterarium music: [Marshrat](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QX641XuJlsU) by [Psapp](https://www.youtube.com/user/psapptv)
> 
> Whitney is named after _Micrathene whitneyi_ — Elf owls :D


	42. Chapter 42

“So, I’ve been spending time with Maya lately,” Jaskier says, sitting with his back against one of the logs around the ash pit. He’s sprawled out lazily. The abandoned spirit camp has become a famililar, almost comforting place to visit—and he _did_ , multiple nights a week while he slept, to chat about what was happening in the world of the living.

Ren, sitting on top of the same log, leans over him, cocking an eyebrow. “ _Maya?_ Gods, why?”

“Well, ah…” Jaskier tilts his head up. He taps his fingers nervously. “She…got a promotion.” Ren sits back and stares. Then, she crumples into laughter, slapping a palm to her forehead. Jaskier straightens and says, “You’re not angry? She’s… _kind of_ undoing all your work.”

“I’m…” Ren breaks off and shakes her head. “Hah…who cares about how I feel? I’m dead. I’m _irrelevant…_ What’s it matter, what I think?” She pauses to chew her lip, her eyes drift to the ground. “You know what, good for her."

Silence. Jaskier shifts uncomfortably. “She’s a terror with that bow. It makes me wonder.”

“About?”

“You.” He screws up his face. “I have a lot of trouble picturing you without a staff. Let alone as some kind of archery prodigy.”

“Mmm. I like it better that way.” She nudges him with her boot. “What do you think of her?”

“Let’s see…She’s willful, ornery, opinionated, has meaningful glares down to a science—wow, I’m realizing why you two got along so well.”

“Rude.” Ren grins.

“Actually, for someone so lethal, she’s unexpectedly…what’s the word...attentive.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I was watching as she patched my wings. Her hands moved like she could’ve been doing heart surgery on a sparrow.”

“She’s always been a fixer.” Ren smiles softly, but it’s tinted with sadness. Her eyes fall back to the pit of charcoal. “Wanna know why she got into imping? It’s ‘cause of a moth.” Jaskier looks at her curiously, thinking back to the sign that hung above the impery’s door. Ren goes on, “This was back when we were old enough wander the town and surrounding woodlands unsupervised, but still young enough to have a lot of free time. One night, we came across a luna moth being bat around by a cat under the light of a lantern. Back then, Maya was pretty withdrawn and soft-spoken—You can imagine my surprise when the sight upset her enough that she raised her voice at the cat and chased it off.”

Ren pauses to chuckle. “She cupped this moth in her hands and brought it over to me. The edges of its wings were all torn up, and she boldly announced she was going to figure out how to repair them. I just shrugged and said, why bother? The adults only live for a week—everybody knows that—and _this_ one probably got caught because it’s old and slow. But Maya just stuck her tongue out at me and began strutting towards the faeling house cradling this pathetic little thing. When I caught up to her, she said, ‘And if we were to ask the moth what it thinks?’…I didn’t know how to respond. At the time, I thought it was a nonsense question—most fae can’t communicate with insects. Certainly neither of _us_ could.

“Anyway, Maya cooped herself up in her room for hours into the night, trying to craft makeshift wings out of paper. She _failed miserably_. It was too heavy a material. The moth died within a few days—as it would have regardless. Maya kept muttering that she felt like she’d failed it. I had to keep reminding her that the moth was doomed from the start. She came to realize the only material light enough to fix a butterfly or moth wing, was another wing. So, she plucked the dead moth’s wings and kept them in a jar on a shelf above her bed. One thing led to another, and you know the rest.”

“Are you sure we’re talking about the same person?”

“I promise...She’s just hardened with age.”

“Hardened? I just witnessed her single-handedly take out a dozen humans without batting an eye.”

Ren turns to him. “She _what?_ Gods damn it, you two need to be more _careful_. You can’t just…! What if the humans decide to—”

“I know! We _all_ know, trust me,” Jaskier sighs, mentally shot back into the endless circular arguments in the meeting room. “Things are just…complicated right now. Besides, she was technically saving me.”

Ren tuts and looms over him. “And what were _you_ doing?”

“Something risky that would probably make you want to strangle me,” Jaskier winces up at her. Ren sighs heavily and leans back on her hands.

“I _hate_ not being there with you.”

“I know.” He softens.

“And now that _she’s_ in charge…urghh…” She buries her face in her hands. “We didn’t exactly agree on a lot of things when it came to handling the guard.”

“Oh, she told me _all_ about that.”

Ren peeks through her fingers. Her brow furrows guiltily. “Still, I know her…I _know_ she’s a good person." She sighs; Her hands drop limply to her lap. “I wish I could talk to her.”

Jaskier thinks, and then straightens. “Maybe you _can_.”

“This s…sounds insane. You know that, right?” Maya says flatly. She sits at one of the long tables in the sprite castle’s dining hall with her chin propped in one hand, and absentmindedly pushing her food around her plate with a wooden fork in the other.

“It’s _not_ —I mean…” Jaskier scratches his head from where he sits across from her. His eyes drop down to his own half-finished plate. “We just found a cosmic loophole and have been, um, exploiting it.”

Maya glances up from the pile of peas she’s stirring, eyes narrowed skeptically. “You’re telling me I can talk to someone who’s been dead for most of a year and all _I_ need to do is fall asleep and follow your bird to a s…specific pocket of reality.”

The prince shoves a spoonful of mashed potatoes in his mouth. “Mmhm. That’s the gist.”

“And if something goes wrong?”

“I’ve never had any issues.” He pauses to swallow, then his brow furrows. “That said, we’ve never tried it with someone other than myself.” Maya cocks an eyebrow. Jaskier shrugs. “Would it help if slept in the barracks tonight, just in case?" Maya appears to think carefully for a moment, then gives a small nod. "Great! Think you can find me a bed?”

* * *

Maya walks along the winding forest path, following the prince’s raven as it flits from branch to overhanging branch, guiding her past countless forks. It feels like they've been walking for hours and going nowhere. An unsettling suspicion starts to creep down her spine, that maybe they’re lost. Maybe they’ll never find their way out.

She’s about to give up and tell the bird to turn around when she notices a break in the trees. She jogs closer. It's...some kind of campsite? She nearly trips when, through the branches, her eyes catch a flush of red staring thoughtfully into the pit of charcoal in the center of the clearing. Maya stalks slowly towards the edge and then leans around a tree. She mutters, mostly to herself, “Shit…you look like hell.”

Ren startles and looks up. Her mouth falls slack. “ _Oh_ , my—” She jumps to a stand and a small, breathy laugh escapes her. “He _actually_ plowin’ did it.”

Maya narrows her eyes discerningly. “Is it _really_ you, or is Jaskier using his magic to screw with me?”

Ren blinks, then shakes her head out of a daze. “I’m—I’m real…as real as a spirit can be, I suppose.”

“Prove it.” Maya steps out from behind the tree, plants herself where she is and crosses her arms. “Tell me s…something about you I wouldn’t know.”

“I mean…what’s left?” the ghost says with another nervous titter. After a quiet moment, her expression falls into a guilty frown. Her pale eyes wander to the side. She lifts a hand to rub one of her horns. “Um, alright…here’s something you should’ve been told a long time ago. I’m sorry.”

“ _Bullshit_.” Maya swallows dryly, her voice as tight as her throat suddenly feels.

“I mean it.” Ren takes a hesitant step closer. “I've had nothing to do here other than marinade in my regrets. I know I messed up with you. I got swept up in my career and carried away by a cause...I became so obsessed with progress that I developed tunnel vision, and I never _once_ slowed down to see what I was leaving in my wake.”

“S…Save your excuses. I’ve made enough for your sake already. I'm _long_ past needing anything from you.”

The ghost wilts under Maya's unflinching glare, but doesn’t appear surprised. Another silence settles between them. Maya waits; For what, she isn't sure. Eventually, she scoffs and turns away. “You know what, this was a s...stupid idea. Ethwyn, let’s go. I don't even know w...what I was trying to get out of this.”

“I have a guess.” Ren’s voice gains a curiously confidant edge. Maya glances over her shoulder and blinks, taken aback, when she sees the ghost wave a hand and materialize a fighting staff, seemingly out of thin air. Ren promptly tosses it over; Maya barely reacts in time to catch it, fumbling in the process. She stares confusedly down at the weapon. When she looks back up, Ren is brandishing a staff of her own, spinning it lazily at her side as she says, “You wanna whale on me, don’t you?”

 _Does_ she? Maya looks at the weapon again. Her grip tightens around the wood. She locks eyes with Ren, fangs baring.

Yeah. She totally does.

She spins the staff and charges. The ghost stays put, continuing to languorously twirl her weapon. As Maya closes in, a devious smile creeps across Ren’s face. The ghost lazily waves her arm again. A tree bursts into existence between them. Maya gasps and slides to a stop; Her nose comes within an inch of the bark. She blinks and leans around the tree; The featureless void outside of the path’s edge has been replaced with expansive, old-growth woodland. Ren is gone.

Maya looks around wildly. “Where are you? Come out, you coward!”

“Make me!” Ren’s voice comes from somewhere in the canopy.

Maya snarls and flies upwards. She spots Ren through the leaves. The ghost leaps from bough to bough, using her ragged wings to glide between trees. Maya, smaller and swifter, is hot on her tail. Just as she’s about to catch up, Ren glances over her shoulder and quickly waves her hand again. The tree Maya is on disappears from under her and she’s sent flapping inelegantly to the ground.

Ren grins down at her from her perch. “Whoops!” 

“Cheater!” Maya snaps, but the ghost has already obscured herself in the leaves. Her distant laughter makes Maya’s feathers bristle. She darts along the ground in the direction of the voice, kicking up dead leaves. “Just wait till I catch you, _you_ —!”

She stops short and looks down when something cold sweeps against her legs, knocking her off balance and sending her flailing and hopping clumsily to the side. She’s alarmed to find herself knee-deep in a swiftly-moving river which was _definitely not there before_.

As Maya gapes down at the murky water, the ghost snickers from above, “Remember that one time I pushed Robin into a leech-infested river for making fun of you? I was just thinking about that.”

“ _Ren!_ ” Maya launches herself into the air like a startled cat, spraying water droplets in her wake. She shakes one of the wriggling bloodsuckers off her calf before shooting towards the canopy with renewed vigor, intent on tackling the sardonic ghost. This time, the branches come alive, shifting to tangle amongst themselves, becoming thick and unnavigable. Maya hovers briefly at the edge before dropping back to the forest floor and staring up at the leafy barrier in defeat. She furiously brushes her hair away from her eyes and fights to catch her breath; The changing landscape leaves her bewildered.

“What’cha lookin’ at?” the voice comes from right behind her. Maya roars and spins, viciously swinging the staff. Ren ducks and sweeps her leg out, throwing Maya’s feet out from under her. The commander lands on her back; Her spine instantly arches upwards as it collides with a foot of snow.

She shivers and clenches her teeth against the cold shock. “I’m going to k-k- _kill_ you!”

“Bit late for that, I’m afraid.” Ren lays her weapon across her shoulder and walks away. Not about to let the ghost out of her sight, Maya quickly rolls back to her feet, but her boots slide unexpectedly. She flounders and falls onto her knees. “Careful, the ice is slippery,” Ren says, now on other side of the frozen pond. Maya slowly brings herself back to a stand, knees trembling, and braces herself on her staff. She glares at the ghost and lets out a tired puff of air, clinging to the wood with white knuckles. Ren isn’t looking, too busy examining the nails of her free hand. Her infuriatingly casual voice floats across the open space, “Sun’s coming out. Better hurry.”

Maya glances up and is momentarily blinded by light. The ice starts cracking and groaning beneath her. She curses and makes a break for the other side, struggling not to slip. The crunching turns into squelching as the ice transmutes into warm, ankle-deep mud close to the bank. Maya pays it no mind, keeping her eyes and momentum forward, fixed on Ren, even as the muck splashes all over her.

They clash weapons. Maya swings over and over, furiously beating Ren back. The ghost easily glides backwards, expertly blocking her every move.

“This…isn’t… _fair!_ ” Maya says breathlessly, continuing to fling herself at her rival. “The staffs w…were…argh!… _Your_ idea!…I… _hated_ them!”

Ren switches to offense, catching a vertical blow and throwing her full weight forward. Maya staggers backwards, creating space between them. Ren’s eyes gain a roguish glint. “Fine. Have it your way,” she says, and waves her hand with a flourish. The staffs transform into bows.

Maya is startled by the abrupt shift of weight in her hands and nearly drops the weapon. She blinks down at the bow in confusion, and then up at the ghost, her mind struggling to keep up with the reality-bending qualities of the liminal space. Ren’s already nocking an arrow, her movements fast and fluid like a heron snatching a fish, and she sends it flying without hesitation. Maya barely manages to raise her own bow before she finds herself staring wide-eyed down the shaft of the approaching projectile. It hits her square in the chest. Her heart sputters. The wind leaves her lungs at once. She drops to her knees, falls forward onto her hands and stares at the ground, momentarily stupefied.

When she gathers the courage to look down at herself, she finds no wound and no blood, because there’s no arrow; It’s nothing but an elaborate illusion. Anger consumes her, swelling out of her breast to fill the rest of her like a geyser. Her teeth gnash. Her fingers dig into the dirt. Tears swell at the corners of her eyes. She shoots Ren a poisonous glare from her prone position. “W…What is _w…wrong_ with you?” 

Ren’s smile drops. “I was just messing around. Having a bit of fun…You know how _boring_ it is here?” She approaches, her voice softening, and kneels beside her. “Nothing here can actually hurt you, May.”

“Oh, yeah?” Maya launches herself at the Ren, pinning her down and wrapping her hands around her throat.

Ren writhes and dramatically throws an arm into the air, her fingers curling like claws. “Arrgh! Oh, _gods!_ Have mercy! My ghost lungs can’t get any ghost air!” she mock-chokes, then breaks off into snorting laughter.

Maya huffs and lets her go, saying, “You are the _actual w…worst.”_ She swiftly stands.

“Yeah, I know.” Ren’s tone is strangely wistful. She remains where she is on the ground, throwing her arms behind her head and crossing her leg over her knee. Her raised foot wags like a dog’s tail. “Willing to bet you’re pretty worn out now though.” Maya keeps silent, only crosses her arms and looks away. Ren hums thoughtfully. “You…wanna keep shooting ghost arrows at each other? I’ll give you a free shot. Ooh! How many d’you think it’ll take before I start leaking ectoplasm? You figure that’s what I have now instead of blood? What if—”

“Shut up!” Maya barks. The ghost frowns; Her foot stills itself. “I’m not _playing around_ , Ren! We’re not _friends_. You dropped me as s…soon as s…something better came along. You started treating me like I w…was an _obstacle_ whose only purpose was to s...s—to slow you down. We disagreed on some things, but I kept trying to reconnect because you were _important_ to me. The other guards were saying terrible things behind your back. I only ever wanted to _help_ you!” She bends forward and throws an accusatory finger out. “You managed to piss off the _entire_ guard, then you ran off w…with Jaskier and made him all _insecure_ about his magic—magic which we _desperately_ _need_ to defend against the humans right now—a-and then…” She pauses, needing to swallow the lump in her throat and rein in her tripping tongue. In that time, her frustration spills over. She curls her fists and stomps her foot, exploding, “ _Then,_ to top it all off, you w…went and you got yourself _killed!_ Plowing _idiot!_ ”

Ren sits up all the way and says, wincing, “To be fair, the latter wasn’t _entirely_ my fault. I promise, I made a _concerted_ effort to stay alive.”

Maya keeps quiet, busy catching her breath while the ghost gradually wilts beneath her glare. She surprised herself with that last outburst, never having admitted to herself how upset the news of Ren’s death made her. She’d callously shoved the emotions away from the beginning, wanting nothing more than to distance herself from the person who’d left her behind and who’d fallen so far from her prodigious pedestal. She’d resisted the notion for months—Ren made herself a fickle ghost _long_ before actually dying, so how was this any plowing different? It wasn’t— _It_ _isn’t_.

Maya chews her lip as her eyes drift from Ren’s tattered wings, down to the scar on her wrist, up to her blue-tinted lips, and finally settle on her desaturated eyes; and it feels like a second, _selfish_ betrayal. As the reality of her rival’s fate slowly sinks in, Ren patiently waits for her to say something.

She’s… _waiting_ for her.

Maya chuckles bitterly and slides a hand up through her hair. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation—I’ve wanted to say that for so long. I thought it would never happen. I finally don’t have to _compete_ with anything, or anyone, just to get five fucking minutes of your attention.” The furrow of Ren’s brow deepens and her jaw falls slack. She looks like she wants to say something, but nothing comes out. Maya scathingly adds, “Now that you’re hiding out, alone, in this cold, s…silent, _unsettling_ liminal space, you finally find my c-c-company worth appreciating...Good to know.” Ren’s expression shifts into something fearful and revelatory. Still, she’s silent. Maya rolls her eyes and turns away—She doesn’t owe the ghost a _second_ of her time. “Ethwyn? We’re done. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“Wait...”

Maya hunches her shoulders, the weak, pleading voice traveling straight to her core. She looks around for the raven more keenly. Her dark feathers are difficult to spot against the empty backdrop. “Hey, bird! You listening?”

“May, I know I _hurt_ you. I know you’re mad—you have every right to be—but, before you go, I just wanted you to…to…t-to kn-nno…no, no— _no,_ _no_ , _no_ , _please_ —” the word collapses into a pained gasp.

Confused, Maya glances over her shoulder. What she sees makes stomach turn. Ren is bent low, her forehead nearly touching the ground, and is curled tightly into herself. She hugs her arms; Her fingers dig into her skin. Her form is splitting and flickering like its being rent apart and it’s taking everything in her just to hold herself together.

Maya spins on her heel and takes a startled step back. “The _hell’s_ going on with you?”

Ren shuts her eyes and bares her teeth in a grimace. “It's my other lives...they keep trying to… _amalgamate_ me.”

“W…What’s that mean? What are you even saying?”

“I’m breaking the rules, lingering here…refusing to answer the river’s call…ghh…I’ve been fighting it for…for _months_ , but it’s getting harder…”

“What the _fuck?_ ” Maya's spine prickles with some flavor of vague, existential dread. “Is this s...some kind of sick joke to get me to s...s—to stay?”

Ren lets out a breathy half-laugh. “I wish.”

Maya watches the ghost’s form continue to distort. She swears, for a split-second, she saw something _foxlike_ in one of those grasping reflections. Ethwyn announces her presence with a caw from behind. The commander glances back at the bird, thinking, and then sighs heavily. She steps closer to Ren and kneels at her side. “Alright…How do we stop it?”

“We don’t.” Ren turns her head away, trembling. “Some things can’t be fixed…I know this now. Some things simply are, and there’s _nothing_ you can do about them…except to accept them and move forward…if only for your own sanity.” Maya says nothing, distracted by the dark water beginning to rise up out of the ground and pool around them. Ren's breath hitches. “Listen, May…I’m not going to be around for much longer…I mixed up my priorities and acted like a shallow, arrogant ass. I thought I couldn’t be wrong…I brushed you off, a-and I was overly harsh on you during training, and I know it was petty and…and I’m sorry… _I’m so sorry_ …”

Maya’s stomach drops as the water rises to cover Ren’s hunched form. The ghost doesn’t seem to notice; Doesn’t need to breathe. Maya stands before her head is engulfed and nervously utters, “Uh, Ren?”

The ghost keeps mumbling without break, her voice unaffected by the cold liquid, “I can’t change the past, I can’t bring Cassia back, I can’t fix what I did to you or to Jaskier or to anybody…I don’t actually know what I’m doing…I’m just a stubborn, controlling _fool_ who doesn’t know when to let go!” 

Maya curses under her breath—which she’d _very much_ like to continue utilizing—as the water moves beyond her height startlingly quickly, and she’s forced to start treading. Maya looks up, wondering if there’s, in fact, a ceiling to this place. She decides she doesn’t want to wait around to find out. She takes a deep breath and dives for Ren. The first time, she’s unable to reach the wavering ghost before she’s forced to swim back to the surface for air. Maya steels herself and dives again. She approaches swiftly, her lungs screaming for oxygen, and throws out an arm, grasping Ren’s shoulder firmly.

Ren’s form snaps instantly back into place. The water drops at once, slamming Maya into the ground and splashing up around them before dissolving completely into the void. Maya is left coughing and gasping for air. When she glances up at Ren, the ghost is staring at her wide-eyed.

“I’m doing it again,” Ren says softly, sounding dazed. “I’m hurting you...even here...”

Maya sits and starts wringing out her hair. She’s about to wave the ghost’s words off, to tell her she's soaked, but fine, but the ground starts shifting beneath her, like it’s turning to sand and sinking into a hole. She wobbles and throws her arms out on either side for balance. But, before her mind can catch up with what's going on, she drops.

“Whoa!” Maya flails and flaps, but her water-heavy wings are useless. She looks up; The ghost is watching her fall away, her eyes now glowing white and her face unnervingly expressionless. Maya reaches out to her in vain— _This isn't done!_ She gapes when a spectral fox leaps out of Ren’s chest and dives in after her. Its similarly glowing eyes leave streaks behind it. The creature grows to an enormous size as it catches up to her. Maya gasps as the fox bites her collar, yanks her in and curls itself protectively around her. They hit the bottom; The fox absorbs the impact and shatters into a million stars.

Maya sits up in her bed and looks wildly around. Back in the barracks. Her arms shake with adrenaline, her breaths are ragged and her heart pounds against her ribs. She curses.

Jaskier groans and sits up in the bed beside her's. “You alright?” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes.

“No—I-I need to go back in. Something is s...seriously wrong.” Maya falls back into her pillow and shuts her eyes, but opens them moments later and rights herself, slamming a fist against the mattress. “Damn it! She’s shutting me out.”

Jaskier yawns. His voice is calm. “Is her form getting all distorted?”

Her brow creases. “Yeah.”

“Mumbling semi-coherently?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

Jaskier sighs tiredly and settles himself back into the covers. “This happens sometimes. I'll see if I can talk to her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Losing Blood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PF5ZTsu8rkA) by [Weathers](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC9C-PglnlYW83udKvznK47w)
> 
> [When I'm Alone](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7G0_eN36QVc) by [Lissie](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCVGIUf6wrLT0Lfr8zd_U2Cg)
> 
> Also, here's some music to fit your petty faery skirmish needs:  
> [Comin' in Hot](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=laiLVp2k_qc) by [Atomic Drum Assembly](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCj-sJkMtYY7hZ8PDS2VQ2GA)


End file.
